Four Nights in Gorgrond
by Ihsan997
Summary: Two disgraced former champions, from two opposing factions, both trying to atone for atrocities committed during war. Their shared guilt allows them to console each other, though a growing connection between them pushes them toward something more.
1. Monotony

**A/N: All 25 chapters of this now completed story - except for chapter 23 - are new. I originally played World of Warcraft from 2006 to 2008; chapter 23 of this story was written at that time as a oneshot based on RP. For deeply personal reasons, I deleted ALL of my stories and stopped writing and even reading any fiction at all, period, for almost nine years.**

**When I started playing Warcraft again in November 2014, inspiration struck and I rewrote chapter 23 from memory in early 2015 after nine years of writing nothing. For sure some details have changed or been recalled differently, but it mostly feels just how it did back then and don't ask how I was able to remember, as I'm not even sure myself. The rest of this story (as well as "The Torturer's Penance") is sort of me just wondering what would have happened to my characters in the interim when I wasn't playing or writing.**

_February, year 31._

The darkness was difficult to describe. The entirety of his vision was pitch black, with not a single other color to be seen. There technically shouldn't have been any movement at all without the presence of light to reflect color. Through some inexplicable means, however, he could clearly see the swirls wrapping around each other in the darkness. Changing shape, changing dimensions, changing in ways he didn't quite have the words to describe, the darkness weaved in and out as though it were alive.

He had no body; that much, he knew. He was sentient, but without any physical being. Bundled in the folds of the darkness, nothing seemed to exist save his own decontextualized mind and the swirling mass in front of him.

Slowly - every so slowly - sensations came into being. Far, far away, the sense of sound came to him. There were voices of people drifting over to him, though he didn't seem to have ears. Before he could even distinguish one voice from another, emotion came to him. Hate - but not for the people. Louder and louder they grew until the screaming became audible. Pained, horrifying screams that would chill anyone to the bone despite them belonging to the voices of others.

No sight came to him, though there was smell next. He waited, and the restoration of memory gave the smell meaning. The stench was awful, but too familiar. It was everywhere, though he had no nose to fill, and its noxious odor sickened his restored heart.

There was blood. So much blood.

On the monster's hands, under his fingernails, on his tools, some even on his teeth.

His vision was black, but the screams of his victims filled his ears. Hysterical screams of people restrained, unable to fight back, unable to shield themselves. Unable to do anything except watch. Watch him, as he let the monster out of its cage.

None of them deserved what he was doing to them. Every last one of them had surrendered or submitted after capture - keeping accurate counts was his job. And yet there he was, howling at them for information, demanding answers to questions that were dictated to him by his superiors. But the officers weren't to blame. Every depraved act of torture was his own, free choice.

Blood had a horrid smell. No matter how many battles he had participated in during the Third War, no matter how many craniums he had cleft or caved in, no matter how many abdomens he had sliced open, he could never get used to the smell of excess blood. As irrational as it seemed, he swore that innocent blood smelled even worse.

His nostrils became real now, and were overwhelmed by the stench.

His eyes became real, forcing him to watch as his real arms came into his own peripheral vision, reaching in slow motion for another pleading, begging captive who was just asking for it to stop. And inside himself, Garot'jin's conscience screamed for him to stop as well. Deep down inside, he knew this was morally wrong - every fibre of his being knew. There was no denying it.

But it was his choice. The monster wasn't real, no matter how much he tried to pretend; it was all him. Just him and his choices. And just like every other night, he never dreamed of his victims turning the tables and taking their revenge. To imagine his own punishment would have been too good a form of solace for his guilty heart.

Just like every single night, he only heard his victims' screams; never his own. Never receiving any form of retribution for the atrocities he had committed.

Garot'jin's vision went black again as the screams died away; a temporary reprieve for his exhausted, self-loathing, semi-lucid mind. Just a quasi-conscious dream he was aware of filled with nothing but blackness and silence. It was the most beautiful sound he could imagine.

Tiny blue, wisplike particles floated into his disembodied view, dancing in front of him - wherever he was. He watched them as they hovered, not knowing whether they were dust, soil, real wisps or something else. It was almost hypnotic, and he suddenly realized that the good dream - the only good dream that ever occasionally graced his mind during the past six years - had finally come to visit again.

It was so rare. Only a few times, not even a full dozen, had his nightmares of his own sins been interrupted for this. But it was his only form of solace from his routine night terrors, and when it came, he stopped thinking. Stopped thinking and just felt.

As the single blue beam of light shone down through the blackness, his hatred of his own self subsided just enough to live in that memory - a memory that, from some cruel act of fate, he had difficulty recalling while awake.

The wisps floated in and out of that single blue beam, dancing in circles with such elegance that he could almost feel the light of the moon flowing over his scalp, down his neck and across his back; a singular reminder that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't as depraved as he had convinced himself he was. It was hard, so hard. Believing that he was the scum of all Azeroth was paramount to his own psychological justification for his new life. It hurt to live the lie, and it hurt to relive the truth; and without either lies or truth, he felt like nothing.

Through the pain, he saw it in the dark. The beam hovered down through that singular opening in the canopy, illuminating just the very top of the small grassy hill. Across the ravine, he was too far to focus but close enough to see.

The trees lining the sides formed a natural wall, blocking out the possibility of any onlookers from the sides. And on that quiet, otherworldly night with no wind, there was only the mental prison on one side of the ravine, and that unobtainable freedom behind a still-visible glow on the other as he reached for it longingly.

A light shone. Faint, far but still visible in the distance, it penetrated into his soul just as much as it opened up for him. One, single shared moment that was so brief yet so deep. He pulled his hand back, knowing that he wasn't strong enough to let himself be free. But the memory of his missed chance was enough. Even if he was still searching for his inner peace, the image of having once watched it pass him by was enough to keep him going.

The light of the moon dimmed as his tears of laughter washed some of the pain away along with the hope that escaped once again, and the blackness returned. And in that split second, the dream was gone.

* * *

The jungle troll woke up slowly, almost wishing he could fall back asleep and return to the same dream. It was futile - the only time he had ever forced himself back to sleep, he merely returned to more nightmares of his crimes against nature. The man closed his eyes one more time as he pushed the thoughts out of his head. He was no longer Garot'jin the torturer; Garot'jin was supposed to have died a deserved death, forever marked as an outcast.

No, he was different now. A new identity, a second chance. He was a mere highway robber, just another dreg of society who had served out his sentence in a hellish prison only to be released early to help fight the Iron Horde. Even if it hurt to live the lie while awake, it was all he could do - revisiting the pain of the past could be saved for horrid, unmerciful sleep.

He breathed deep one more time before rolling over and searching for his jacket. The rest of the hired men were still sleeping on their bunks, and he didn't disturb them - there was no reason for anyone else to be aware of his escape. Just a quick and easy exit as he slipped his winter clothes on, slunk across the floorboards and squeezed his massive frame through the door as quietly as possible.

The snow lied still on the streets of the burgeoning settlement at Thunder Pass. There was no breeze blowing, and with minimal activity it would be easy to pass unseen. The signpost above the door of a medium-sized inn stood still, not even vibrating as the door slid open a hair. A pair of red eyes peered out, spying both the apothecary and vegetable wholesaler across the street. The whole area was devoid of life other than a few stray cats sleeping in the alleyway directly across from the inn's door.

The door was pulled open all the way as a hulking, fur-clad figure slinked out. He reached back with one hand and quietly closed the door behind him, not wanting to be heard. He tiptoed southbound down the empty street, his vibrant scarlet mohawk and a single knotted braid dangling at the back of his head shifting somewhat as he approached the end of the street inch by inch.

The next intersection was another small one, with various shops and distribution centers dotting both sides of the road. Crouching behind a barrel on one corner, the man fingered one of the sawed-off knubs jutting from under his upper lip as he estimated the amount of strides it would take to sprint across the street. It would have to be fast if he wanted to reach the other side of the road without being seen. He rested his left elbow on his knee, keeping his right knuckles on the ground as he envisioned a zig-zagging route to get across. He was completely oblivious to the furry, three-fingered hand reaching for his shoulder.

"Khujand." He spun around while still crouching to see who could possibly have gotten the drop on him.

A relatively lean tauren woman stood there staring down at him quizically. "What are you doing?"

At seven in the morning, not many of the locals had begun their daily chores and business just yet, though everyone was up. Down the street, some of the shopkeepers who lived in the floors directly above their stores were enjoying coffee or breakfast on their balconies, easily able to spy anybody who thought they could possibly hide in broad daylight on a street corner.

The oafish jungle troll was reminded of why he could never have been a rogue. The ivory of his clipped, four-inch long knubs that were once long tusks gleamed in the sunlight.

"I am hidin'."

Zorena stood motionless in front of him, an eyebrow raised above her doeish eyes. She was wearing a cream colored jacket over a green apron with pockets on the front. Along with her pure white, ankle length dress, the overgarments created a color combination that distracted her friend for a moment.

"From what?"

The vegetable delivery kid passed by with a handful of carrots as he greeted them, not even noticing that one of the pair was crouching behind a barrel that was way to small to hide his large stature anyway. The glass bottle-blowing family from Quel'thalas diagonally across the intersection pushed the curtains of their shop window aside and propped the door open as a sign that they were ready for customers.

Khujand's red eyes darted over to the glass blower's children on the porch across the intersection, then back to Zorena, then across the street again, and then back to Zorena.

"I am hidin'."

"Well, I caught you," the tauren chortled as she took Khujand by the arm. "So now I need you to follow me." He stood up and walked alongside her as she explained the message she had received from a contact in the Cenarion Circle the day before.

Embarrassed, he tried to focus on what she was saying as he dodged the growing number of morning bypassers in the street. He bumped past a trio of furry pandaren who were below his chest height only to narrowly miss a blood elf sorceress dressed far too formally for a garrison outpost. Three orcs were already pulling a cart full of assorted iron tools as they blushed at a group of Darkspear troll women eyeing every man that passed by _except_ Khujand. The residential district was ahead, its roads much narrower and too cramped for the two of them to walk comfortably side-by-side.

* * *

The narrow, two-storey apartment Zorena shared with her brother Kuma would have been comfortable for most people; with the two tauren and the beefy jungle troll, it felt downright cramped. The chairs the siblings had moved into the sitting room were unusually cushy and plush given the lack of proper furniture factories in Frostfire, and though they were a luxury they also took up even more space.

Kuma was preparing some herbal tea in the kitchen, his body taking up literally the entire space as he hunched over the countertop and wood-powered stove. Zorena sat comfortably in the dull brown chair nearest to the kitchen with her back to Kuma, leaning back slightly. Khujand was tense, holding on to his knees with his hands as he took care not to lean forward and close the mere two-inch gap between his legs and Zorena's. She wouldn't have cared and he meant nothing by it, but despite their friendship Kuma was overly protective of his sister.

"These podlings are almost sentient, but there's something wrong with the groupings in west-central Gorgrond," she explained as she continued reviewing the transcription of the message that had been sent via some sort of enchanted scrying bowl.

"The attacks on locals near Beastwatch have left some of them with infections; it isn't life-threatening, but it causes chronic difficulties with their respiratory systems. Two of my contacts associated with the Cenarion Circle are currently stationed there and need samples from the aggressive podlings in hope of discovering a cure. I won't lie to you; this will require you to take the life of a podling and collect its 'blood' with this." She produced a small jar with some enchanted runes glowing on its lid, the colors sweeping across the spectrum.

Khujand smiled to himself despite knowing that the quest wasn't particularly significant, which was likely the reason why nobody else had accepted it until now. Since the Battle of Thunder Pass had come to an end and other adventurers and garrison grunts had beaten the Iron Horde at their base near the pass into submission, he felt like he was wasting his second chance at life; one could only down so many frost boars before wishing for some sort of a higher purpose.

"So ya need somebody ta ride inta Gorgrond, smash...er, sample some of these podlings, and make it ta Beastwatch?" he said more than asked. "But how do I get back?"

Zorena adjusted one of her two braids. "There has been a lot of activity at the ironworks of the Iron Horde during the past few days. It isn't safe to fly currently, but we have something just as good." She was leaning close as she whispered the secret, causing Khujand to glance at the kitchen to see where Kuma was looking. "One of the mages from Undercity has enchanted a hearthstone for us. It's weak, as magic energy seems to function differently here on Draenor; it will only work once. You can take that wolf you and Toruk found through the pass; once you're done in Beastwatch, just hearth back."

She was suddenly handing the light grey stone with the ocean turqoise runes on it; he had not noticed where she pulled it from at all, but stuck it in the pocket of his fur jacket.

Kuma sat down at the third chair, placing the herbal tea down on a tray. The three of them were practically occupying the whole room, only adding to the already increasing temperature in the region. The weather had warmed up over the past week, though the warm tea was still a delight.

"The reward won't be much," Zorena added, "but it's for a good cause and could lead to a cure for several sick people. The Cenarion Circle will appreciate the effort." She looked Khujand directly in the eye now. "Everybody else I asked was unwilling, as a large party wouldn't make it through the pass unnoticed; this is a solo quest, but Gorgrond is very dangerous for lone travelers. I'm asking you because I felt if there was anybody up to it, it would be you."

His ego which had been deflated for a long time pumping up slightly, the flattered Darkspear did his best to avoid grinning.

"Ya know I'll do it," he said with more enthusiasm escaping onto his face than he realized. "Helpin' ta cure a non-life threatenin' illness might not be tha biggest achievement out there, but every little bit counts. I can even leave today."

* * *

Khujand had to lift his hands up to protect his face from the fluffy frostwolf's tongue, the beast almost headbutting him a few times as it tried to smother him with big wolfish kisses. Much like its Darkspear savior, the wolf was oversized and heavy. It was a bit slow but could carry Khujand and his gear for a good distance before tiring. It lacked the killer instinct of the smaller, more lithe wolves, but then again, Khujand wasn't an actual hunter and didn't tame beasts anyway. As a mount, it was a perfect fit.

"Are you sure you don't want to give it a name?" asked Thunderhorn, leaning against the railing of the wolf's pen inside the stables.

The old tauren had been caring for the giant, snow white furball since it followed the jungle troll home after the successful catch of another large boar for the inn. He tried to scare it off at first, but it just kept following him with its tongue hanging out, its big blue eyes staring at him like those of a big puppy. It was so docile that what few children there were at the settlement (mostly local, non-Azerothian orcs) could climb on its back and pull its ears without fear.

"Wolf is a name," Khujand replied, rubbing the animal's belly as it rolled in the dirt and hay.

Thunderhorn rolled his eyes as he smiled. "Is Ushka alright with you disappearing for half a week?"

The hefty troll inhaled deeply, his back puffing up as he kneeled over his new mount. "I started bunking with tha hired men tha other night," he started. "Neither of us are totally comfortable, but she has reasons ta be paranoid about money. Tha extra room ta rent out will really help. It has a toilet and everything."

"Is she taking it personally that you're working somewhere else, even temporarily?" Thunderhorn's eye was raised as he asked. He didn't want to pry, but the two were close enough now that they could butt into each others' business a bit.

Khujand sighed. "I think she might. She didn't indicate that, but I understand if she does. She has enough kills now ta serve customers for at least a week, but..." He looked off to the side as he trailed off for a moment. Thunderhorn knew that Khujand had been in prison, though nobody knew the real reason. His fake identity was protected, and around his small circle of friends, he could open up a little bit - keeping certain pieces secret while working out the details of the lie.

"I'm feelin'...listless, ya know. I was supposed ta be here with a second chance at life. Now I'm just catchin' animals for food. It's honest work, but it ain't what I had expected. Ushka knows that, and sometimes she hints that I'm wastin' potential, wastin' time better spent with other things."

He couldn't make eye contact with Thunderhorn as he spoke. As much as he had progressed socially since coming to the settlement at Thunder Pass, the reality was that only a month and a few days ago, he was in prison in a near-catatonic state. Lorthiras had given him a bit of a pep talk, the initial assault through the Dark Portal made him feel alive again and the horrors of Tanaan (and the fact that he survived it) reminded him of his own mortality and the fact that he had a life to live. The problem was, he didn't know how to live normal anymore. Nearly six years in an unacknowledged prison couldn't be reversed in one month, especially without any family and no friends save the dozen other adventurers like Thunderhorn, all of whom would go their separate ways after the campaign.

"Ushka is right, if that is what she's trying to imply to you," Thunderhorn said thoughtfully as he stroked his furry chin. "And if that's the case, it's probably better for you to go try other things. It might help you to sort things out in your head."

The frostwolf had already been saddled up as the stablehand was speaking. It was so attached to Khujand that there weren't even any reins - verbal commands and pointing were enough for the happy canine to follow directions.

"Maybe tha change in scenery will help me figure my life out," Khujand sighed as he looked back at one of his few friends in the world. Thunderhorn swung the brand new gate open as the two walked out, Khujand's enormous travel bag and three-foot-long waterskin strapped to his back. They both worked to fasten his weapons to the side of the heavy wolf's saddle before bidding each other farewell.

"Khujand!" the mottled black tauren called out. The fur-clad traveler and is docile mount both turned back to see Thunderhorn raise his right arm and point to them dramatically.

"Stay safe!"

The two men shared a good laugh as the troll and the wolf disappeared down the ridge and out of the settlement. It was a simple solo quest to slice open some plant people. Surely there wouldn't be anything along the way that could jeopardize his safety, he thought to himself.


	2. An Error in Judgment

**Warning: This story is an easygoing, slightly fluffy romance at the root of it, but there is some intense violence during this chapter. If you would prefer to skip the violent parts, it may be adviseable to just read the first portion below and then skip the middle portion until the line break and continue with the third portion; a confrontation occurs in the middle section and any fight scene involving Khujand is bound to be gory. I promise not all of the story is like this.**

* * *

A ton. At least one ton. He had lifted enough trees doing hard labor in prison to accurately estimate the weight. Not near a ton and a half, but definitely about four times Khujand's own bodyweight.

It laid diagonally across his chest, which for sure was as bruised as his thighs and stomach. He could feel the welts everywhere, breaks in the blood vessels where they had first rolled the tree onto him. His hands were uselessly pressed underneath it, more to prevent it from rolling over his face and crushing his head than to actually lift it. He was still able to breathe this way, his lungs and upper body expanding in an odd way beneath the incredible weight. Casting a glance to the left and then the right, it looked to be a good twenty feet long, with some rotted branches still at the top and part of the root system still intact at the bottom. The amount of pressure down on his body was even greater than the timber avalanche back at the Shadowprey lumber mill a few years ago. But this one had rolled, not fallen. He was very much alive.

There was nothing but inpenetrable rain forest all around the ditch he was lying in, just a few yards away from the bottom of the slope. The underbrush was so thick that nothing could be seen beyond fifteen feet or so, dense ferns and vines mixed in with the trunks of medium-height treets. The canopy formed a natural ceiling that would have been remarkable to behold. Had there not been a ton of timber on his chest.

Succeeding in controlling his breathing during a crisis for once in his life, Khujand began to force himself to relax to check for injuries. There was a dull ache in his forearms and shins, but his arcanite bracers and shinguards had done their job and nothing was fractured. There was a strange tingling sensation in both of his kneecaps, though nothing was torn. A second tree trunk was strewn across his ankles, though they weren't broken and the trunk felt like it only weighed about a quarter more than his own body weight. He had last tipped the scale at the Thunder Pass loading station at about 500 pounds - he had lost weight since leaving prison, and wasn't that heavy considering his excessive height. Pushing the second trunk off of his legs with his feet could be done comfortably, though, leaving only the one-ton log on his chest to worry about.

There were rocks underneath his back, though none of them were near his spine. The incline sloped downward and his feet were up higher than his head. The puddle of mud was about ear-height, though none of it had entered his ear canals. Strange amphibians hopped around, eyeing the man who was down but not out. Somehow, a long but shallow cut had opened up across his left thigh though the pain wasn't as dull as the ache of the bleeding wound on the back of his head from where they had sapped him.

It was still afternoon, and enough light filtered down through the canopy there in west-central Gorgrond that his vision was clear enough. He made the rounds flexing his different muscle groups, checking if anything was pulled. His legs were tired from all the riding, but that was minor. There was some back pain as he breathed, though once he was up and walking again that would likely disappear. His arms and hips were fine. All that was left was to figure out how to get out from under this tree and start thinking of his revenge.

_Ass down on the ground,_ his inner voice instructed him, its tone serious and direct. _Don't buck your hips up yet. Feet slightly wider than shoulder width apart. Plant them firmly on the ground._

Lifting his knees up in the air with the correct width between them, he pulled his legs out from under the smaller tree trunk one at a time. His leather two-toed boots had some mud in them, but otherwise protected his skin from any more cuts and abrasions.

_Even your shoulders out. Dig down into the mud until you can hit something more solid. Don't remove your hands from the tree; just slide them to the side._

It was times like this when his subconscious intruding into his conscious mind was welcome. The instructions it gave were always there, floating somewhere around in his head, but his unstable tendency to run two separate voices in his head at one time occasionally granted him a scrutiny of himself he wouldn't otherwise have.

Wrestling was one of the few diversions at the prison yard; learning how to feel out the mechanics of his own body had seemed like it would never be useful in battle, though as this point this wasn't exactly battle so much as survival. Were he not able to examine his joints and body movement so well, his lungs may have been crushed already. Khujand used the tree's weight to sink into the mud as far down as he would go, letting it soak into his mane.

Sliding his hands to the side of the tree took minutes. Only one could be moved at a time, and slowly, to avoid the tree becoming loose and rolling even further down toward his head. Once he was in position, he rested, running one last check on his muscle groups for any tears. The two ogre bandits that had survived were long gone, leaving nothing but the irritating amphibians hopping aimlessly.

_PUSH._

Khujand dug his heels into the mud as deep as they would go, testing the tree's weight with his arms. Yeah. One ton. No doubt about it now.

_Push. Push. Ass off the ground now. Hump the air above you and get as much of your back off the ground as possible._

He did as he was told for a brief moment before sinking back down into the mud. Life in Frostfire had kept him fit - he was satisfied with his current weight - but during his past month on this planet, he hadn't needed to lift anything like this. It was intimidating.

_Up. Get up! Get your worthless self up! Do it for the ones you failed!_

Bracing himself and checking his muscles one more time, he bucked his hips into the air again, feeling how easily he could push the literal ton of weight now. Dropping his hips back down to the ground, he began performing breathing exercises, preparing himself for the do-or-die moment of shrimping out from underneath the tree trunk.

_Push! Push! Prove that your incompetence hasn't consumed you_, the voice shouted at him. _This old troll ain't done yet!_

Bucking his hips up at least three feet in the air, he raised his back up off the ground and felt his triceps and pectoral muscles pull as his fingernails chipped during their deathgrip on the tree trunk. His hamstrings and glutes pulled too as he dug his heels in and dragged himself up the slope, his wrists giving out just as his head moved out from under the trunk with half an inch of space to spare.

_::THUD::_

It hit the mud and drove right down to the soil underneath, the shockwave almost hurting the wound on the back of his head as the trunk rolled further down the embankment.

Only by sheer power of will was he able to spring up, leaping upward up the slope and onto the crudely paved and beaten road laid by the local orcs decades ago. The pain as it was now had already started to dull, and he could only hope that his regeneration would allow him to have an easy awakening the next morning. Crawling onto the road, Khujand didn't even have time to run another muscle check before the aftermath of the scuffle came into view.

The ogre that had sapped him from behind lied flat on its back, mouth gaping toward the sky. The cut from Khujand's fel glaive ate almost halfway through the meat of its forearm, and it lie on a puddle of its own blood - the major artery in the crook of the elbow had been ripped up beyond saving by his blade. Its throat still bore wolven toothmarks, the blood from its jugular vein still flowing. Khujand guessed that it had still been alive when the two ogres he had initially been facing shoved his half-conscious body toward the ditch on the side of the beaten road as he stumbled, though he vaguely remembers the third hitting the ground with his frost wolf attached to its neck before its companions had rolled the dying tree down after him. He was surprised that it still had the strength to sap him after he jutted his glaive backward and cut into its arm.

Following the trail of blood, he surmised that the remaining two ogres must have used his own weapons for what came after; the only item remaining in the area was his serrated combat knife lying under a bush, which he hadn't used himself. Khujand's heart was ripped in half as he clinched his eyelids shut, pleading with fate to reverse the events and protect him from what he was about to see.

Lying in another pool of blood was the painful image of Khujand's inability to take care of those close to him. Its eyelids hanging half open, his frost wolf's mangled corpse lie on its side just a yard away. The two surviving ogres hadn't had any blunt weapons, though the wolf's skull was caved in; they must have snatched his bone club before the poor animal had time to turn around from the sneakier of the three. His wolf had been a fine and loyal mount - big, vigorous, able to bear heavy loads, but totally lacking the ferocity a hunter pet would have.

His lip quivering, Khujand crawled toward the remains of what had become the most recent addition to his circle of new friends in his new life. He cradled its limp head and neck in his arms and pulled the rest of its corpse into his lap as he sat with his legs folded. Its once snow white fur was now caked in its own blood and the blood of the dead ogre that had snuck up behind him, an offensive sullying of what - to its master - represented its pure, innocent and docile nature. Stroking the fur behind its ears as though the wolf were still alive, Khujand looked into its half-open, bright blue eyes; eyes like that of a giant puppy that wasn't meant for the harsh environs of Draenor. He shouldn't have merely threatened the two ogres in front of him, he chided himself. He should have just lunged and cut them in half immediately, no questions asked. But he didn't, and now the only being in the universe which had loved Khujand unconditionally was lost through no fault of its own.

He hugged the dead wolf close, hoping for some sort of solace at the end. He had felt spirits before when using his resurrection spell and when grasping the hands of dying comrades who were beyond saving. He wanted that now, he needed that now more than ever. He dug deep, searching for any kind of greater meaning or higher power behind what had happened, some sort of inspiration that would fill him with a futile hope that the wolf was now in a better place. He asked whatever had created him and the wolf to let him feel its innocent spirit pass, to feel some sort of sensation passing over his body toward the sky as it looked at this world for the last time.

But he felt nothing.

There was no realization of faith, there was no reassurance that this had happened for a reason. There was nothing there with him except a dead body and a stinging reminder of his own failure.

A pained, pitiful howl echoed through the jungle of west-central Gorgrond, something bestial and feral yet wounded. Pressure mounted behind Khujand's strained eyes, his already fragile psyche no longer able to control the emotions boiling within. They were wide open like a madman, seeking something to release his pain onto. For the first time since little Jarinta had been attacked outside of Thunder Pass half a month ago, a darkness crawled its way out of the depths of his mind. A feeling came which hadn't been with Khujand since the Battle of Mount Hyjal at the end of the Third War.

Voodoo. The spirit world on Draenor was different for Azeroth, and the druids and shamans could not attune as easily. He was never an expert anyway, yet it was unmistakeable. A hundred thousand whispering, rasping voices uttered the most depraved, horrible thoughts into his ear, urging the _real_ him to come out, urging the monster to return despite his wish for it to stay buried. Terrifying, screeching voices that didn't terrify him. His inner voice hid away, not wanting them around, or not being able to make itself heard over the cacophony echoing throughout the trees. Khujand couldn't hear anything else.

His fear of himself left him as black shadows vaguely shaped like humanoids darted in and out of his peripheral vision, poking at him, tugging at him, pointing him to the way.

The new him gave in for now. The monster was in control. The shadows pulled at his hands, dragging him along until he dragged them instead. He was pushed without their help, propelled unnaturally, swirls of black and blue mixing with everything in his field of vision.

* * *

Two ogres stopped briefly on their slow, trotting path toward nowhere. Listening briefly to the cry they heard reverberate among the trees, they uncomfortably increased their pace. The one out front had slung a large battleaxe over its shoulder, carrying a travel bag underneath its other arm. It was uninjured, speeding up ahead as it ignored the sound as per the usual for treks in the jungle.

Behind it, the second ogre bandit had a deep cut in its right shoulder which had spilled a large quantity of blood, though it was walking fine at a normal pace. A bone club, fel glaive and water skin were strapped over its back. Matching deep blue sumo-style underwear were the only other possessions either of the two surviving bandits had on them, satisfied that what they had stolen was enough.

Ignoring the flies buzzing overhead, they continued on the half-beaten, half-paved pathway worn by the feet of so many ogres and orcs before. They were not out of the jungle yet, and would have a long way to go.

"Fug!"

The first ogre turned to its crying companion, the horror before it enough to stop even a large brute such as itself dead in its tracks. It hadn't ingested any hallucinogens, yet there was no explanation that would convince its tiny brain of the writhing mess a few yards back.

The second ogre was hunched over in pain, yet there was nothing attacking it, no other being which forced the weapons and waterskin from its hands. Yet is screamed, fear gripping them both as it never had before as the second ogre's left eye and cheek appeared to sink into its own face, a snap heard from its left shoulder as some invisible force seemed to break its arm at the joint and shove the appendage partially inside its body.

"What happen you?!" the first ogre shouted, its body motionless but its arms shaking as it tried to wrap its head around what it was observing.

There was no gushing blood, no bruising of the skin, no additional wounds opening. Only the ogre's screams and the snapping of bone as it collapsed onto the ground, its underwear hanging loose as its entire left side seemed to implode as though its skeleton had been reduced to mush. Its back hunched over to the point where the remainder of its body almost folded into itself, its right arm melding into the skin of its torso like two pieces of butter melting together into one.

The toes and fingers on its right side sank and fused together as its lower jaw cracked open and connected with its chest, leaving the top half of its head to be engulfed by what was left of the body. It had all happened so fast that the first ogre couldn't even blink until its companion had disappeared beneath its own soiled underwear, the only remnants of what was once a large sentient being.

Dropping the travel bag from under its arm, the last of the ogre bandits rushed over to the soiled underwear, carefully lifting it with the tip of its battleaxe as though the nasty garment would grow teeth and lunge at it. There was some sort of movement underneath the fabric; something very small.

Dragging the underwear until the top opened, the ogre's awe only grew.

An anchovie.

Very much alive, very much flopping around, very much real...but an anchovie. A two-inch long fish, miraculously occupying what was once a bandit's underpants.

The ogre stepped back two paces, hesitating as it removed its gaze from the fish and looked back from whence they came. Far, far in the distance, at least two hundred yards away, stood a dark, bloodstained figure. He remained motionless and stared at the ogre, his feet splayed apart slightly wider than shoulder-width as his muscular chest heaved visibly underneath the shadows cast by the canopy. Mud was caked throughout the man's loincloth, beard and mohawk. The ogre recognized the very slightly slouched posture as well as the serrated combat knife. Two electric red eyes glimmered through the shade, crackling with an unfamiliar energy.

"Fug warn you now," shouted the ogre with a shaky voice. "Last chance no chance!"

Without a word, the man rushed forward, his eyes blazing. One hundred and eighty yards away and the ogre's pea-sized brain knew it was on.

"You make Fug friend fish! Fug make you die!" The ogre began walking forward, trying to force itself to be angry despite its fear.

One hundred and fifty yards away and the man was still holding his knife low, speeding up his pace. The ogre had seen fast running animals on Draenor before, but never had it seen someone or something so large moving with such speed. One hundred and fifteen yards now and the ogre slowed down its pace.

"Go, go," it yelled once it had passed the soiled underwear and flopping anchovie. It held its ground as the troll approached to less than a hundred yards away on the beaten and paved cobblestone-and-packed-earth road.

There was no more time for threats. The ogre readied its battleaxe, the seconds ticking away as it felt its pulse pounding to escape from its neck. Sixty yards. Thirty yards. What is this-

"Ooomph!" it bellowed.

Despite being half the ogre's size, the troll man knocked it back with such force that its battleaxe swing only cut about an inch into the meat of the man's left arm, causing no apparent discomfort at all. The force of the collission loosened the ogre's grip and it stumbled as it fought to keep its footing. The horizontal slash across its belly came so quick during the maul that the pain didn't register for another second, everything coming in matters of seconds now.

"Youch! Fug kill you," it whimpered unconvincingly as the knife dropped to the ground along with the battleaxe.

Pushing forward like a linebacker, the man plopped his face right up against the center of the ogre's chest as he pushed on both of its hips with his palms, his slouch increasing as he tucked his abs in to drive his body weight forward. It was only then that the ogre felt the cold air on his stomach in a way he had never felt before, and then noticed the dripping sensation as it continued to stumble backward with the man's forward push.

Finger deep, the man plunged into the living ogre's innards as he continued pushing it back with such finesse and power that all it could do was swing at the man's shoulders with both hands, its higher center of gravity proving an incredible weakness as its severed abdominal muscles led it to arch its back and thus focus its own body weight upward and backward. The two of them were locked in a clinch, the ogre running backward and the troll running forward.

Knuckle deep, and the ogre could now feel different parts inside of its body being pushed and crammed to the side as the man continued running straight forward, his head and shoulders tucked too tightly against the ogre's chest for it to create space or gain leverage. Both of the man's trollish fingers were digging for something inside of the ogre's body and the pain was excruciating.

"I sorry! I sorry!"

Wrist deep, and the ogre's abdomen split open even wider from the force of gravity pulling down its guts, with gore slipping down to their feet as they crossed the twenty yard mark in the ogre's backwards run and the troll's forward push. Panic took over for the first time in its life, it never having known what it felt like to be so unable to defend itself. The trees on both sides of the road had turned into a bark brown and evergreen blur as the short-tusked, mohawk-bearing man kept pushing.

"Wait! One minute, one minute!"

Elbow deep, and the ogre's intestines began slipping out of the massive hole in its stomach, its lower back muscles wrenching to support its spinal column and fight to stay upright. The troll's fingers flexed around inside, grasping onto the warm, gelatinous prize as they continued moving backward, the ogre trying to grab the man's throat in vain.

Digging his heels into the rammed earth of the road, the man's tug pressed all of the ogre's higher internal organs forward against its own ribcage and brought its weakened body to a halt. Stepping back with one foot and turning sideways, the man yanked his arm out with such force that the ogre's stomach, bladder and the rest of its intestines spilled out onto the road in front of it as it fell to its knees, trying in vain to grab its own internal organs and push them back inside the hole in its belly. The last thing it saw was its own liver torn and wrapped around Khujand's fist.

"I TOLD YA I'D MAKE YA EAT IT YA SONUFA BITCH!"

_::WHACK::_

The left hook was overkill; not much force would have been needed to knock the ogre flat on its back now. Khujand's big, meaty fist was larger around than the ogre's mouth, but with a crack of its jawbone he forced it to fit as he shoved the ogre's own liver down its throat.

Rising slowly with his eyes still burning bright, he spied the hexed anchovie helplessly flopping around behind them. The last thing the fish that was formerly an ogre saw was the sight of the man's molar teeth crashing down from above and below.

* * *

By the time he had walked back to the site of the first confrontation, all the adrenaline, dopamine, berserker rage and voodoo magic had been flushed out of Khujand's system. Weary and sore all over, he collapsed in front of the corpse of what was once his loyal frost wolf, an unstable wave of emotions he didn't want sweeping him away again. He stroked its fur once more as he sat on his knees in a crumpled heap, finally alone and able to wallow in his self-pity.

His mount had been killed and he had proven unable to save it. The two ogres had somehow eaten his rations in that short amount of time, leaving only his waterskin and the containers of spices he had thrown into his now damp travel bag for no good reason. The enchanted jar was intact, but his hearthstone had been cracked during the second confrontation. The runes still glowed slightly, and he could only hope that it would work when he needed it. His sleeping bag and winter clothes were both damp and torn but possibly still usable.

Khujand was alone now. He had no way of riding long distances, no food and may not even be able to hearth back to Thunder Pass. He had not even seen any podlings yet, and although his regeneration powers was quite strong even for a troll, he was still injured for the time being. The sun was setting fast. He had nowhere to go, noone to help him and nothing to do.

"I'm sorry, boy," he panted through a stuffy nose. "I'm sorry I couldn't protect ya...Zorena...wolfie...I'm sorry. I tried..."

The oversized jungle troll rocked back and forth with his head in one hand as the other hand clung to a clump of once white fur, his body quaking as his inability to control himself became just another addition to his list of failures that day.

* * *

The sun had not yet risen by the time he finally stirred. The earth over the wolf's makeshift grave had remained warm until then, and the smooth stone he had used to mark the head of the burial site was better than no pillow at all. He was down at the bottom of the sloping embarkment at the side of the road, having passed out in the dirt after finally laying his former mount to rest without any concern for his own surroundings or wellbeing. Although his regeneration had done some of its work, his chest cavity ached as did the wounds on his left arm, his left thigh and the back of his head. Rising to his feet, he found the pain in his arms and legs gone but the strength drained from his muscles.

He used his cleanse spell to check if his cuts were infected, detecting nothing other how one would expect to feel after being sapped, shoved into a ditch, rolled under a one-ton tree and slashed with a battleaxe.

Moving to his hands and knees, he crawled up the slope, over the road and down the other side to wash all the ogre gore from his arm in the muddy water below. With his dry hand, he removed his two-toed boots and began scraping the cracked mud out with his fingernails. He washed behind his ears to get the mud off of his hide; somehow, the muddy water he used to wash his mane and loincloth did end up leaving them cleaner than before. Remembering the bar of soap that was still intact, he scrambled back up to the road and slid down again, relishing in the chance to win at something, no matter how small.

As he scrubbed, he weighed his options. Although Khujand had been able to catch wild animals with Toruk's help, a Shadow Hunter was like a cross between a witch doctor and a berserk warrior, not a _hunter_ hunter, and he had no idea how to skin or prepare any living thing for consumption. Despite knowing alchemy rather well, he had no experience in herbalism and trying to cook unidentifiable berries from the jungle could just as easily kill him as it could sustain him. He had never learned how to fish - by God, he had to be the only troll on all of Azeroth who couldn't fish - and didn't know how to pinpoint the presence of root vegetables by their above-ground stems.

His winter clothes and tent could be dried once the sun came up, though given the humid weather of Gorgrond, they wouldn't be necessary anyway. Inside his travel bag, there were a few more bars of soap, one roll of bandages, a stack of napkins, the enchanted jar, small containers of cumin, cinnamon and black pepper, Ushka's frying pan and a small bottle of extra virgin olive oil imported from Azeroth.

Spices and oil probably weren't enough to live on, and on top of that Khujand finally realized that _he didn't know how to start a fire_. Why had he even bothered bringing the spices and frying pan?! He should have used the space for more hard rations; perhaps the ogres wouldn't have eaten everything if there were some extra. Khujand couldn't even pack a bag properly before venturing into uncharted territory. Truly, his mother had spoiled him too much as a child. If only she had known then what a worthless excuse of a man he would turn out to be.

But...

...he couldn't go back. Not now.

The small group of people he had met at the tavern at Thunder Pass that fateful night were the only other living beings he had in the world, them and Ushka. If the choice was between returning to Zorena empty handed with the settlement's only hearthstone damaged and her standing with the Cenarion Circle possibly damaged even more, or simply wandering Gorgrond until he starved to death...the latter was his choice all the way. As much as he had adjusted to life on the outside, he knew that he could easily revert to the hopelessness he felt in prison and walk himself to death if he intentionally shut his mind down. Better that the only people in the universe who seemed to care about him at all think that he died valiantly fighting off waves of plant people than to think that he failed the quest miserably.

Khujand crawled back up to the road and gathered the belongings he had scattered about haphazardly before passing out. He strapped his fel glaive, bone club and waterskin to his back, then carefully placed what little he still owned in his travel bag and slung it over his shoulder. He didn't bother cleaning off the glaive or his combat knife, and made sure to collect the bloodied ogre necklaces from his interlocutors in case he needed to bargain with or threaten anyone else.

Wrapping the necklaces around his wrist, Khujand continued moving east into the unknown, lamenting that his new life might end only a month after it having been given back to him. It seemed a fitting punishment for someone so useless, for him to have had the promise of a second chance at freedom only for it to be torn away.

After more than two and a half hours of walking on tired legs, the trees slowly began to thin out and the risen sun beat down; it was a welcome change from Frostfire Ridge. The wildlife here reminded him of the oases in the Barrens, a tiny, fleeting source of distraction from the reality of his situation.

To the north of the east-west road, he could see a rocky outcropping popping from behind the trees, signalling some sort of mountainous wall. As he walked, he marvelled at how well-built the road had been; the Laughing Skull clan which inhabited the area was considered to be savage, yet the road was almost of the same quality as the roads back in Kalimdor. Surely this road was built through organized efforts and a large number of people; in that case, it must ultimately lead somewhere inhabitable.

_Wait...there!_

Looking ahead, he saw smoke signals. He didn't know how to read them, but they were clearly made by intelligent life. Although he increased his speed, he lightened his steps so as to spy any bits of conversation he could steal. The trees stopped completely up ahead, and the rock outcropping jutted out from the left side of the road, providing him something to hide behind as he spied on the location of the smoke signals behind it. There were voices; at least two people. He pricked his long troll ears up to get a better listen.

They were speaking Common...damnit. He couldn't speak it quite like a native, but he understood it fully and he knew it was the main language of the Alliance.

When he had entered this alternate version of Draenor through the Dark Portal a month ago, he marched through side-by-side with the Alliance on his right and his fellow members of the Horde on his left. There was no animosity or hostility, but they were still an opposing faction. The situation was complicated; fighting had broken out on Ashran even though there were clear efforts of cooperation and even mingling in Talador and the Spires of Arakk, if tavern news was any indicator. There was no way of knowing whether or not they would be hostile.

_If they're here on Draenor, they're here for the campaign against the Iron Horde. They aren't bandits and they likely aren't here to oppress the real Horde_. His inner voice sounded reasonable, but he suspected that it just wanted to take any risk if his body could possibly gain some rest.

Rest. He wanted rest. He was tired and in pain. He was hungry. All the gear he was carrying was heavy and cumbersome, and every muscle in his body felt fatigued. He was afraid of failing his mission.

The Alliance respects the Cenarion Circle, he thought to himself. He would say he was on a quest on their behalf. If they still acted hostile...well, he still had enough mana left for another hex spell. He tried to justify the contradiction of preparing to both share his water with potential cross-factional comrades or just turn them into worms if they wouldn't share their food, though at that point he was so exhausted that it was easier to stop thinking and just push himself another few dozen yards or so and accept whatever fate had brought to him.

Sighing heavily and hefting his gear one more time, he followed the voices to the left around the outcropping.

* * *

**A/N: I normally don't update so frequently - I like to keep some suspense - but I am about to go on a two week family vacation. All twenty-five chapters have been uploaded into the doc manager and are waiting, but I might not have computer access for another two weeks. If I don't post chapter three exactly seven days from now, assume I will have to wait the full two weeks. Thank you so much to anyone reading!**


	3. Breaking Barriers

**A/N: Parts inspired by the awesomeness of Meruda. A cookie to anybody who can guess which part of the campfire conversation here was inspired by which one of her stories. Thanks for being an unwitting muse, Meruda!**

* * *

He should have learned a damned healing spell. It was such a tough decision - he was serious about following his mother's advice. Better to be an expert at a few things than a generalist at many. His cleansing spell could not only help him to detect disease, viruses and even curses but to remove them as well (though not reverse the damage). His ressurection spell could reverse enough damage to let someone live, and he had to admit that as grateful as people were for healing, there was no greater gratitude they showed than when you pulled the recently dead back into the world of the living. Hexing people was far, far more horrifying than a mage's sheep spell - he could hold them in their twisted form a lot longer, and the things he turned people in to were generally more fragile and debilitating than sheep. Big, bad voodoo - nothing could beat that. He wasn't skilled enough to cast it on others like a real, actual Shadow Hunter, but he didn't need to; casting it on himself generally turned him into a one-man raiding party.

But he couldn't heal. All Shadow Hunters could heal, but then again, Khujand isn't really one of them is he? He hadn't even passed the halfway point of his life yet. He was a punk who thought too much of himself. And at that moment, as he rounded the rocky outcropping, the wounds on his arm, thigh and the back of his head were screaming for quick relief.

The road which was a combination of rammed earth and paved/set cobblestone continued on to the east, but immediately to the north there was an unnaturally flat ledge against a sheer rock wall. Beyond that was a slope leading down to the side, and an impossibly large valley out ahead. The sight was beautiful and even beat the oases of the Barrens; it had to go on for miles in length, and in width he could just barely make out the east and west edges of the valley beyond the rainforest into which the eastward road had continued. Lakes and small streams dotted the mostly flat terrain down in the valley and evergreen grass covered all but a few patches of rock. He could vaguely make out the shapes of small animals in herds moving to drink from the water holes. As the early morning sun beat down on the scene, he couldn't help but ignore the pain for a brief, fleeting moment.

Stepping on an uneven rock on the ledge, Khujand jarred his left leg at an awkward angle and leaned too much on his quadricep muscle; the pain flared up and he stopped momentarily to catch himself. Given how unusual his regeneration was - it was hyperactive even by the standards of trolls - he though healing unnecessary if he could just cleanse for infection and wait out the pain. Had he any skill in first aid, perhaps the bandages in his pack could have been of use. Had he understood herbalism, perhaps he could have foraged for something anesthetic in the wilds. As it was, he could only wince and grimace as his choice of only fource spells weighed down on him along with the excessive gear strapped to his back.

Going over common phrases in Common in his head, he gazed ahead to the source of the smoke signals he had seen earlier. The entire ledge from north to south was about thirty yards long and ten yards wide, the long north end hanging over the beginning of the valley while the wide east end hung over the slope leading down; it had to have been beaten artificially, given that the site was too perfect for sentient inhabitants to have just sprouted out of nowhere.

There were three logs forming a triangle around a still-smoldering campfire in the middle of the ledge, about fifteen yards from Khujand; to the left of it, wedged against the sheer rock wall which rose about twenty feet, was a large, dark green tent. The flaps were hanging open and the bedding was visible, along with various bags of rations and travel equipment. A drying rack of Draeneic design sat with assorted articles of clothing on it. Whoever was camping here was clearly experienced, well-prepared and wasn't alone. Alliance or no, his hopes were certainly up that he could convince these people to take him in, that he could be of some use to them.

At least two people had been speaking in Common only a few moments ago and the smoke was still rising from the fire. Khujand cleared his throat loudly and took two intentionally loud, heavy steps forward, not wanting to startle anybody. He held on to the strap of his waterskin and travel bag with his right hand, his left dangling at his side but a good distance out and away from his knife. Although he never slouched that much anymore - certainly not as much as most other troll's - he worked to straighten up his back completely, worrying that the characteristic slouch might come off as aggressive toward Alliance races.

There was no point in waiting. "Hello?" he said far too loudly in an accent which advertised his lack of fluency in Common.

No answer.

"I saw smoke," he continued, ensuring that he paused after each phrase. "I heard people."

Still no answer.

"Imma traveler." The longer and more complicated his sentences were, the more his grammar degenerated. "I don't mean no harm. I just want ta rest."

He took another step forward before he heard the scampering behind him. They had been hiding down on the slope below the ledge.

"Freeze, dirtbag!" shouted a bland yet distinctly female voice from the spot he had just passed over.

'Freeze'...'dirtbag'? She can't be serious...

Khujand turned just in time to see a night elf moving far too close to him for her own good and - he almost couldn't believe it - summersaulting toward him. Had he wanted, he could have leapt forward and either killed or paralyzed her with one stomp to her lower back before she completed the silly stunt. As she finished her ridiculous and overdramatized roll, she came up into a kneeling position with a high-powered steel grey hunting rifle aimed at him. Looking at her as she crouched down, he remembered the days when he would take estimates of prisoners and guessed she was average for their kind; just over six and a half feet tall and perhaps 220 pounds, taller than a human man but shorter than a Draenei. He tried to scan her as quickly as possible, knowing that it was still a fifty-fifty chance he could end up in a fight.

The scoped rifle she held as she stared him down was actually intimidating, now that he had given her the chance to point it at him. Her armor was **not** color coordinated at all, a patchwork of random leather and mail pieces; light green leather vest, no pauldrons, gloves or head protection (?!), steel-rimmed leather boots, chainmail leggings the color of her rifle...and an absolutely _tacky_ looking pair of gnomish diurnal goggles strapped to her head with lenses that glowed green. Night elves didn't see well during the day, and a piece of equipment like that probably cost so much that she couldn't afford a real set of armor afterward. Why on Azeroth was she flipping out with a _God damned_ summersault while wearing something so valuable? Khujand only spied her untied, bright indigo hair and the boring ruby red snakeeye slits tattooed on her face before looking to her companion. He would only have a few more milliseconds to size them up before he would be forced to decide whether to fight, flee or make friends.

The other elf was much bigger - taller than most male night elves, almost as tall as Khujand himself. She looked graceful but wasn't dainty; she was wearing bright, shining silver colored thorium plate armor that was clearly a second rate, goblin-made imitation of elven sentinel armor. The designs all over her chestpiece - which unlike the skimpy female armor typical of humans, actually protected her body - were far too intricate for him to take in. The same was true for her bracers, gauntlets, pauldrons and shinguards. Jet black leather straps held everything on, though from her underarms, neck, face and thighs he could see that her skin was a deep tone of mauve. Her hair was also untied, her head was unprotected, her eyes were squinting in the sun and she was clearly sleepy like him. The moon glaive attached to her right bracer wouldn't be of much use, which was reassuring. Given her armor and height - her eyes were about level with Khujand's mouth - she looked to weight maybe 300 pounds and could likely hit hard were she more awake. Everything was numbers in his head now, statistics as he tried to guess his likelihood of surviving a confrontation. He could only spy nondescript tattoos on her face and thighs of some shade of dark blue before his eyes flitted back to the smaller one's hunting rifle.

"Hands in the air, motherfucker!" the goggle-wearing elf barked as she jutted the barrel of he rifle in his direction. "Drop your ass down the slope and get back on the road east!"

Putting his hands above his head, he refused to budge. "I don' wanna fight you, I-"

"Then BACK OFF! Drop off the slope! Now!"

"I have water and supplies. I can share it with you. I have a tent."

Goggles (as he had identified her in his head) made a big show of cocking her rifle, moving her right lense behind the scope. It was completely ludicrous; what use would the scope be to her if she were wearing goggles?

_She's pointing a gun at you, stupid._ His inner voice was becoming more and more welcome by the day. _It doesn't matter if she's even dumber than you are; she makes the rules._

Khujand shot a look to the larger one, noticing that her glaive wasn't even readied. She didn't appear angry or even threatened, though without knowing the individual he couldn't know if it was due to sympathy or comfort at the fact that he was staring down the barrel of a loaded gun.

"Nobody wants your nasty water! You have to the count of-"

He had been digging deep into his mind once she cocked her rifle with an audible click, unconvinced that - given the current agreement between the Horde and the Alliance on Draenor - she would shoot him merely for being a pest. Once he was comfortable, he dropped his facade and let the sincere desperation show through his face.

"I'm tired, and I have no food," he urged in rusty but near-fluent Darnassian. Both of their mouths dropped open.

"There is an agreement between our factions ta focus on tha big picture here. I have water, and I can help fight off all that monsters out here. I can help ya, if ya help me."

No answer.

"Please. I'm not tha enemy here."

Goggles licked her lips, pulling her lenses back from the scope but keeping the rifle aimed at his chest as she looked him over. The bigger one reached to Goggles diagonally with her left hand, placing her hand on the smaller elf's shoulder. As they looked at each other, the bigger one squinted her eyes even more and frowned almost pleadingly.

"He's right," the big one whispered, not realizing that trolls could hear as acutely as elves.

Goggles rose to stand, the rifle still aimed at him. "Everything you have belongs to us now. Turn around."

Khujand complied while keeping his hands in the air. Second Rate (he identified the bigger one that way now because of her unauthentic armor) removed all three of his weapons and rotated around him, walking backward toward the camp and tucking them into their tent. He remained motionless, a gun still aimed at his back, as Second Rate returned to take his waterskin and travel bag. Rotating in the same way to remain facing him, she dropped the skin and bag in front of the log facing the edge of the ledge. He could tell that Goggles was making hand signals behind him as Second Rate returned again, giving him a rather gentle push on the small of his back. Getting the idea, he walked ever so slowly over to the log facing the edge and turned to face the campfire.

"Sit down," Goggles ordered. He did as he was told and watched as she sat to the log facing him from the left of the triangle and Second Rate sat on the right, pulling his bag over to herself and rummaging through it. Goggles planted her feet out before her, the rifle resting across her knees. She hunched over with her elbows on her thighs as she slowly tapped her finger on the trigger and continued to stare Khujand down. He just squated on his log, gradually lowering his hands to lie parallel on top of his legs with his palms facing upward.

"Thank ya," he said without shyness. "It ain't easy on ya own out here." Goggles ignored his comment, unimpressed.

"Oh!" Second Rate exclaimed in a husky, breathy voice as she fumbled with something made of glass. "He has cumin! Look! Is this..." She looked up at him. "How did you get extra virgin olive oil on Draenor?"

"It's imported," he he said matter-of-factly as he raised both eyebrows. At least one of them was friendly. Second Rate started pulling out the spices and soaps one by one, laying them carefully on a flap of the bag to protect them from the dust on the rock ledge.

"My name is Khujand, by tha way," he offered, attempting to ease the tension. "I came from Frostfire ta-"

"Noooobody caaaaares," Goggles rasped as though she were exasperated by having to listen to him.

Second Rate shot her a disappointed look. "Stop! He hasn't done anything wrong!"

They looked at each other silently and Khujand saw an opening. As devious as it was, setting them against each other could keep the focus off of him.

"Thank ya," he said congenially as he nodded in Second Rate's direction. "It's difficult ta-"

"Why are you hurt?" Goggles interrupted. She sounded as though she were interrogating somebody.

Second Rate continued rummaging, inspecting the torn tent. Khujand turned to Goggles, hearing the forcefullness in her voice but seeing her posture relax. Too ashamed to admit the whole truth, he went for a lie instead.

Raising his wrist, he shook it such that the three ogre necklaces jingled. Both elves looked at the source of the sound and seemed to focus on the bloodiest charms hanging from the loops. "Three ogres, all at once. They cut me in a few places...I cut them a lot more. And...took their club." He motioned to the big kodo femur, hoping they wouldn't realize that it came from an animal only found on Azeroth.

"Three ogres?" Goggles asked incredulously.

"Well," he replied, "I did hex one of them." For effect, he flashed his cleanse spell briefly simply to make his outstretched hands glow. Immediately, Goggles gripped her gun more tightly and Second Rate stopped rummaging to stare at him. He truly didn't want to fight them and in his condition he probably couldn't take them both on at the same time, but they didn't need to know that. He looked from Goggle's hands to Second Rate's...wait, were her hands shaking? That almost seemed over the top, or perhaps her wrist muscles were fatigued.

"So," Goggles started suspiciously, puckering her lips before she continued. "You came to Gorgrond for what reason exactly?"

Now was the time for the truth. Kaldorei respected druids. "The Cenarion Circle needed someone willing ta undertake a quest. There are some sick people at Beastwatch, infected by tha plant people here. It ain't life threatenin', but it's an infection. Two representatives there need someone ta collect samples of tha plant people, but nobody else was willin'. Whenever I finish that, I can return ta Frostfire."

Both of the elves' expressions softened, though Second Rate looked to the smaller elf for direction. Goggles snorted and appeared to chew on her own tongue for a moment. "That's an honorable thing to do," she said contritely, appearing respectful for the first time. "How will you collect these samples?"

Rotating his palm downward, Khujand pointed to the travel bag with a finger. "They gave me an enchanted jar in there. I don't know how it works, but ya can see tha runes on it."

Second Rate found the jar before he had even finished his sentence, showing it to Goggles. She only turned her head slightly, her hands still on her gun though her finger was off the trigger. They both seemed impressed, losing track of the man who was neither a comrade nor quite a captive.

"I'll be needin' my weapons back," he added. "Tha podlins probably need ta be cut open for samples."

The two elves looked at each other again; since the three were already speaking Darnassian, there was no way for them to communicate without him hearing. Second Rate nodded at Goggles, who simply said, "Not yet."

He smiled and looked down at the ground. Maybe they were coming around. "Can I sit normal, please?" he asked.

Second Rate stared at the side of Goggles' head, shooting her an unreadable look; for whatever reason, Goggles' aggression appeared to subside as the muscles in her face relaxed. "Go ahead." His hopes were up; perhaps he would be able to rest soon.

"You ain't given me any names," he sighed as he placed his hands down on the log and crossed his legs in front of him. "Or your purpose for bein' here."

"We're contractors," Goggles said, her shoulders finally relaxing. "We're from Highpass and work with a goblin shipping service. The locals aren't cooperative and don't seem to have a written culture, so our employer needs west Gorgrond mapped out." She straighted her back a bit, though she still kept her right hand on her gun as she leaned back on the other hand. "We're neutral and ship everywhere. Even Beastwatch - we have a pass to get inside for shipping and courier services. We're heading there in a few days when we finish up here."

Khujand glared, unable to hide his indignence as their hypocrisy; the treatment he'd received from these two despite their being granted freedom to pass through a Horde settlement made no logical sense. "Beastwatch is allied with tha Horde," he huffed. "Ya already familiar with Horde people then. Why ya pointin' a gun at me like this?" It probably wasn't the most tactful thing to say considering that, well, she was pointing a gun at him like this.

Goggles was ready and undaunted. "We don't know who the hell you are, other than that you're an eight-and-a-half-foot-tall mohawk guy with blood-stained weapons."

"_Stop_ it!" Second Rate had finished her rummaging and was sitting cross-legged as well, her face turned toward her friend as she chided her. The two shared another unreadable look, as though they had known each other for years. It was a silent form of communication he guessed nobody understood but them. She turned back to Khujand and failed at an attempt to smile, jumping into the discussion.

"How did you end up on Draenor?" Second Rate asked politely.

Khujand couldn't hide his smile, feeling as though he could relate to Second Rate if Goggles was still so standoffish. "I marched through during tha initial assault on tha Dark Portal, right behind Thrall and that Khadgar fellow." Goggles' ears pricked up as she listened without moving. This was his chance to try to break the barrier; he needed to be convinced they wouldn't simply rob him in his sleep.

"My goal here is ta keep our planet safe from tha Iron Horde. Even if I do something as small as helpin' out tha druids, I'm fine with that." He did his best to remind the elves of who he was performing a quest for. "I could use ya help out here; tryin' ta get ta Beastwatch on my own could be risky. Ya would be helpin' those sick people, too."

Second Rate looked to Goggles intently; whether it was for her to lead or to send some message was indiscernible. There was a moment of silence as the last embers from the campfire died out. It made him uncomfortable; did they believe him? Would they let him stay at their camp?

Goggles apparently grew tired of the silence and of being stared at and started. "We're also heading back to Beastwatch in a few days, as it's the only flight path back to Highpass. Also, our interpreter...eh, he is also Horde. We both know Orcish reasonably well, but not the Laughing Skull dialect." She had cast her head down and hesitated before saying it.

Khujand licked his teeth, feeling a bit more confident now. "So ya workin' with another Hordie, but ya almost shot me just cause ya racist against trolls?" His tone was more tired than accusatory as he tried to guilt-trip them without crossing the line.

"No!" Goggles exclaimed, sincerely looking embarrassed.

"No, she wouldn't have shot you unless you became violent," Second Rate added. "We're also tired, and have also had our share of problems out here." Goggles snapped her head over to Second Rate, glaring at the larger elf as she finished the last comment. An uncomfortable silence fell over the three again, though the two elves both held the more relaxed posture now. At least they weren't acting like they were about to jump him anymore.

"How many people are with ya," he asked, breaking the silence. "If ya want my waterskin and tha spices and oil here, ya'll need to proportion our usage of drinkin water wisely."

Second Rate reached over to feel the surface of the skin for a moment. It was full; the ogre's hadn't drunk from it. She started staring at Khujand now instead of her companion; the apprehension he felt under her gaze was intense. He was so used to being invisible and uninteresting to others, even at Thunder Pass. Was she planning something?

"There are seven of us," Goggles stated, her tone sounding casual and almost friendly for the first time. Yes. They were getting comfortable around him. This was good. "Our interpreter is an orc, he knows the Laughing Skull dialect of Orcish. Vegnus and Yaromira are the actual surveyors and they lead the operation in the valley down there. We're finished when they say so. Yaromira's husband Kiul and their friend Anushka - all draenei - are assistants."

"And you?" he asked as he motioned to Goggles and then Second Rate with his left pointer. He rested his forearms on his thighs, clasping his hands together. They didn't stop him and his it was only when his breathing relaxed that he realized how tense he had been.

"We're hired muscle. We make sure nothing bad happens out here, like bandit attacks. We can also assist as needed." Goggles set her rifle down completely now, leaning forward and crossing her arms. "They have some supplies with them, but the stuff you have here would be a welcome addition. Spices are like gold back home, much less on this planet."

His eyes lit up just as his patience had started wearing thin from exhaustion and uncertainty. "So I can stay with ya? Till Beastwatch?" he asked a little too eagerly. "I guarantee that I can help ya all out."

This time, Goggles looked into the side of Second Rate's head as the bigger elf continued eyeballing Khujand with a blank expression. Was she sizing him up they way he did to them before? Why can't she look somewhere else?

"That's up to Yaromira and Vegnus," Goggles said apologetically after a moment. "They split off from us after we found this spot; they should be back shortly. But...if you bring water and spices and can still help us fight, they likely won't kick you out of the camp."

Relief. His legs were killing him, and his wounds still ached. Whether out of boredom, restlessness or curiosity, he pressed them again.

"Ya still ain't given me any names."

Goggles looked pensive as she ignored his question and answered a different one entirely. "We came through the Dark Portal as irregulars working for a neutral goblin cartel. We met up with the new courier service in Shadowmoon and decided that we needed to do our part for the war effort." There was another awkward silence. If they were accepting him into their group, they certainly seemed conflicted about it.

"I marched in with people from ya faction," he said in an attempt to break the silence. "We didn't help each other, but there wasn't no animosity. And I have no desire ta fight against ya people anymore. I just want ta help my friend's druid contact and then get back ta fightin' tha Iron Horde." He kept his head down but looked up with his eyes, trying to read their expressions. They were doing a good job of controlling their reactions.

Goggles peered at him with her lips pursed. She didn't seem combative so much as guarded. "So what do you make of this supposed agreement between our two factions?"

Politics, eh, he thought. She won't get the argument she might be hoping for.

"I think it doesn't go far enough," he said in earnest as he looked right into her lenses and leaned forward. "I spent many years fightin' elves and other Alliance people. I did things I ain't proud of now. It seems like a waste of time given the threat the whole planet faces."

Goggles was, again, ready and undaunted. "You're full of shit," she chortled. At least she was laughing. "I don't believe a freaking Darkspear who admits to fighting and probably killing our people has any sort of regrets."

"He's not lying." They both turned to Second Rate. She stared back at Goggles. What was with these two?

"I would know if he were lying," she said out loud but intending only Goggles.

"Thank ya," he directed to Second Rate, though neither of them seemed to notice. Goggles glanced off to the side, looking away from them both as she licked her lips. Was she...upset? Uncomfortable? The fire inside her seemed to have died down. These two were weird. Khujand's eyes darted around as he tried to think of where to look until the awkward moment passed, noticing the tall elf poking Goggles' foot with one finger. It was likely an attempt reassuring contact and he let it slide, not wanting to interrupt their odd bonding with a smart remark that could very well get him kicked out of the camp. He tried to intrude with what he thought would be a friendly gesture again.

"Ya names?"

Second Rate continued staring at Goggles...why did she stare at everything? Couldn't she look at things like a normal person? As socially awkward as Khujand was, even he could tell this giant elf with shaky hands was strange.

Goggles turned back and the two elves did their silent communication again before she turned to him. "I'm Irien Rainsong," Goggles said as she thumbed her own chest. "That's Cecilia Hearthglen." The bigger elf hunched down with her elbows on her thighs like the other two now, her stare broken.

Neither Cecilia nor Hearthglen are elven names, he thought. He didn't have time to ask; this Irien was firing at him again.

"So when and why did you fight our people? Were you with those Warsong assholes?"

Khujand froze. This was _not_ how he had envisioned the conversation going. What would...what would he say? Tell them the truth: that he was an evil, despicable person who committed war crimes while with Warsong Gulch? That would not only violate the terms of his parole, but might alienate him from the first Alliance members he might be able to call acquaintances. Tell them the lie: that Khujand was a grave robber and highway bandit, right when they were on a highway fighting off bandits? Both seemed like risks.

But...

...these people weren't Horde. They could never rat on him. And he loathed telling a fake story, a story that wasn't his. He still hadn't accepted his new identity psychologically. Though he didn't want to be a torturer, he didn't want to be a robber either. What was the harm in telling these Alliance the truth - that he hated what he had done and what he had become, and bore no ill will to individuals due to politics? The thought was comforting. Nobody really knew him at Thunder Pass, not even Ushka. He was losing track of who he really was; he felt like neither Groty nor Khujand.

Cecilia had begun to stare at him again. Her armor was sentinel style, but obviously a knockoff, and her hands weren't steady enough to be such a great warrior. Irien was boisterous and far too foolhardy. Neither of them could have been Silverwing.

"Well?" Irien asked nosily. "If you want to stay here, we have a right to know what the hell you did to our people."

Khujand closed his eyes for a moment, not even attempting to hide the fact that he was digging down deep again. He opened them and raised his head up. Pulling his knees into his chest, he wrapped his arms around them and talked.

"I was with Warsong. I'm sorry, and I ain't proud of it, but I was. They tore apart land without thinkin' of tha long term effects on tha environment, and without thinkin' how tha people that lived there first - ya people - would feel. When ya night elves reacted tha way anybody would, tha Warsong Outriders made it their goal ta exterminate tha lot of ya. They never considered that if they just opened up negotiations, just backed off from tha lumber operation on tha land of another people and asked ta trade concessions, that maybe both our sides coulda benefitted from tha exchange. Tha Horde took in tha tauren who believe in almost tha same things as ya, there ain't no reason why we couldna respected tha land rights of tha Kaldorei as well.

"I bought into tha propaganda, hook, line and sinker. They told me ya all were tha ones that brought tha Burnin' Legon ta Azeroth way back and now ya wanted ta wipe us all out for no good reason. But there was a reason, cause we violated things ya considered sacred. Tha Outriders depersonized ya people, tricked us - tricked me - into thinkin' ya don' have hearts, ya don' have families, like we do. They told me that ya don' feel joy and sadness like we do and that killin' ya was like killin' satyr. Eventually I figured out that it was wrong, but only after I killed a fair share of ya people who were only defendin' their legit rights. And I hurt a lot more, too, hurt more of tha elves who didn' do anything other than defend their home.

"Ya all ain't perfect, either. Both sides are ta blame. But by tha time I managed ta get out of Warsong, I realized that we had done much worse things, that we perpetuated it, that we were more in tha wrong. I wasted what shoulda been some of tha best years of my life becomin' a person I despised, I mean really, truly despised, doin' things I wish I never did. I let tha Outriders change who I was. I'm very sorry for what has happened ta ya homeland - even if ya people did wrong things too - and I feel even worse at tha stupid choices I made."

Irien was now sitting with her face resting in her palms as she stared at the cooling campfire. Cecilia said nothing, mimicking Khujand's sitting position and shifting between also looking at the campfire and staring Khujand down some more. He felt dizzy from all the talking, and there was a silence that was longer than all the previous ones.

He looked up, addressing Irien first since she had been the one asking. "Do ya hate me, for what I did ta ya people?" Realizing that his voice had gone up in pitch, he cursed himself silently. He worried that he sounded too desperate.

Irien looked thoughtful for the first time, stroking her chin before looking at him with her lenses. "I hate what you did to our people. So much." She sighed and left her mouth hanging open, indicating that she wasn't finished but was looking for the words. "But I don't hate you. Many of our kind would. Maybe we should. But the fact that you recognize how awful you were - and you truly were a piece of shit back then, from what you describe - makes it difficult be angry at you now. You seem very sorry and not very Horde-like. So whatever you were doing back then, it's over." She shrugged, not knowing what else to say.

"And ya?" he asked Cecilia.

She was still staring at him. She propped her chin up on top of her knees and proceeded to give Khujand the shock of his life.

"I don't hate you for the same reason I don't hate the sentinels. They're just as bad."

"Cici!" Irien snapped as she turned all the way to face her tall friend. Now it was Khujand's turn for his mouth to drop open.

"We let the dwarves cut down trees and excavate our land for their unnecessary archeological digs," she said to her tall Darkspear comrade while ignoring her (relatively) short Kaldorei one. "But we don't allow the orcs - most of whom are poor and illiterate - to cut down trees to build homes for their families. It's ridiculous." Khujand's dropped jaw slowly spread into an uncomfortable, open-mouthed grin. He still felt that his own faction was more in the wrong, but her comments...well, he didn't even know what to do other than grin stupidly.

"No! No! It's not the same," Irien stuttered, seeming to forget the jungle troll was there. She wasn't angry but her face was contorted as though she were panicking. "The Horde goes too far, you know that!"

"Then negotiate with us," Khujand interrupted, feeling bad for causing dischord between the two friends. "Warchief Vol'jin already tentatively agreed ta a pullout from Ashenvale if we get Azshara. Priestess Tyrande acknowledged that ta him face-ta-face at tha Battle of Orgrimmar."

What he thought was logic did nothing to assuage Irien's frantic arm-waving. "No, the Horde goes too far! The Warsong are demonic!" She jabbed a finger at Khujand, but it was different now. She wasn't ordering him around, she wasn't threatening him, wasn't reaching for her gun. She was trying to convince him and change his mind. If she cared about his opinion, there must be some sort of a connection there, a bond between adventurers stuck in a jungle.

"He's not Warsong though," Cecilia interjected as she sat up straight and motioned to him, still facing Irien. She turned to him quickly as she continued. "You hate them, don't you?" She leaned closer, her expression questioning and urgent as though it was something extremely important to her.

"That's a fair term," he answered while nodding. He was enjoying this way too much. "Even if ya another faction, ya have rights, and tha elves were there in north Kalimdor before the Horde, even before tha tauren. The Warsong dishonored us just like their leader does. I hate them and hate what I let them turn me into." He enjoyed saying that out loud even more.

Uttering such a sentence would surely lose him some friends back at Thunder Pass. Was this...wrong? The Alliance were just as bad. Their leader Varian Wrynn was a dishonest, bigoted tyrant with self-serving egomania. Their society, by and large, wouldn't accept Khujand as a civilized being due to his ethnicity. Is this conversation treasonous?

_It's the truth, no matter what else people want to call it,_ the voice whispered inside his head. _You've seen the evil of both sides firsthand. Sharing with these people is your own business, your own choice._

As the two elves bickered, Khujand remembered something Zorena had told him about - something from the druids. Perhaps he could impress the two nature's children with a clever quote.

"Irien, do ya believe that Kaldorei tradition teaches peace?" It took a minute before he had their attention.

She eyed him suspiciously. Cecilia did too. "What do you think you know about our religion?" Irien demanded more than asked.

"Does Elune want peace?"

"What kind of question is that?" she asked indignantly. Cecilia had turned her entire body to face the burly troll, her own countenance less than pleased as well.

"Does peace come through understandin'?"

"What's the point, Khujand?" Oh, Irien said his name. They'd almost accepted him as a friend without realizing it.

"Does understandin' come through forgiveness?" He cocked an eyebrow and pointed at her as he spoke, trying to hold back his giddiness.

"Not everything can be forgiven! You admit that you hate the Warsong Outriders!"

"That I do, that I do. But Warsong don't represent all of us Horde, any more than tha ones that murdered Cenarius represent all of tha orcish race, any more than Illidan Stormrage represented all of tha night elves." He shifted to place his palms on the ground in front of him, trying to control his breathing as he leaned forward toward the two elves. Both the pair of weakly glowing silver eyes and brightly shining green lenses were on him, listening intently. He wasn't used to being the center of attention like this, yet somehow managed to push through his anxiety and complete his monologue.

_Don't get too pleased with yourself. You don't know enough about people and socializing yet to gauge their reactions._

"For a great majority of people, they just wanna live their lives, whether they be a clothier in Lor'Danel or a cobbler in tha Crossroads. If we forgave each other, maybe we could understand. If we understood each other, maybe we could have peace and just live our lives. No more fightin' over land and resources. Maybe we could even be happy together."

No answer. Cecilia hummed as a real smile spread across her face for the first time, though. Irien looked dejected, the argument she had been seeking now defused.

"Ya know who wrote that?" he asked. "Daryana Whisperwind, tha one from ya people who taught my people about druidistics."

Irien begrudgingly nodded as Cecilia and Khujand both went back to staring at the burnt out campfire. He felt - rightly or wrongly - as though he were quickly learning how to not only deal with people again, but with people of other races in a way he hadn't done since first meeting night elves as comrades at the Battle of Mount Hyjal around ten years ago.

"I told ya my story," he quipped after another long silence. What was it about these two and silence? "Ya turn now."

The two elves shared a look and Cecilia shook her head, pulling her knees in to her chest again like a giant child. Irien took over again. "We're much older than you. We've been working security on the goblin ships and zeppelins, and at holiday celebrations in neutral cities like for Lunar Festival. We heard there was both glory and opportunity on Draenor and arrived here two weeks ago. Now we protect couriers and mail services in Shadowmoon, Talador and hopefully Gorgrond." She looked at her motionless friend before turning back to Khujand. "The end."

Khujand chuckled at the brusqueness. Realizing that he was still leaning forward on his palms, he returned to sitting with his elbows on his thighs. "Neutral cities, huh? I knew ya were liberal Kaldorei."

Both of them cocked their heads to the side almost in unison as they looked at him quizzically. "What's that supposed to mean?" Irien asked.

Another chance to show them that they aren't as mysterious as they think, he thought. He stroked his beard with one hand before pointing at the sky like Lorthiras to punctuate his point. "Well, I know ya society is divided in conflict between liberals and traditionalists. Ya in a state of shock from losin' ya immortality and isolation in such a short time. So, you usin' that instead of a bow," he stated pointedly as he motioned to Irien's gun, "and ya wearin' imitation elven armor obviously made by goblins," he stated in a similar pointy matter while nodding at Cecilia, "so ya must be tha liberal type."

Cecilia hid the lower half of her face behind her knees, her dim, faint eyes peering into him with something unreadable. Irien ran her fingers through her hair as though she didn't know what to do or say. They both looked slightly awkward now, and for once Khujand was able to feel like he was the normal one in a conversation, if only for a few fleeting seconds. "Is that on tha mark?"

Irien gulped. The positions all three of them were in had changed so much over the past hour or hour and a half. How many silences had there been? "We, uh..." she stammered, at a loss for words. "We like to be open minded about meeting different kinds of people, like in neutral areas." She tried to ignore Khujand miming her cocking her gun at him earlier. "We believe fate brings people together so we can know each other."

"Well, I don't believe in fate. Ya pointed ya gun at me earlier so obviou-"

"LIAR."

The power in Cecilia's voice silenced Khujand and forced both him and Irien to turn their heads to her in an instant. She was staring him down again, only this time she was frowning and giving him a harder look, pursing her lips as though she were upset. One could hear a pin drop.

"Um...beg ya pardon?" It was his turn to stammer. His eyes darted to Irien, looking to follow her lead now as Cecilia had earlier. She seemed as confused as he was.

The lanky elf didn't give him time to think. "I knew you weren't lying when you said you aren't the enemy, and I knew you weren't lying when you said that you believe the agreement between the Alliance and the Horde didn't go far enough. And I know you _are_ lying about not believing in fate." Her stare was piercing and uncomfortable for both her old friend and her new friend.

Before the awkward silence could even set in, both of the elves jumped as Khujand could faintly here shouting in Common from behind him. It was too fast for him to make out the words, especially when he had just spent hours speaking in another language not native to him. Irien dashed forward past Khujand toward the edge and Cecilia dashed back toward their gear.

Everything was happening so fast. Irien was arguing with someone else just as quickly in Common. Khujand turned around to see what was emerging from the undergrowth, now hearing Cecilia scrambling behind him. It was impossible to tell what was going on. The last things he remembered were the flash of gunpowder in the distance, the loud bang hurting his ears, and some great weight crushing him to the ground as his vision went black.


	4. We Know You

Khujand's ears were ringing. The sound had originated from far away, but it certainly was loud. It sounded like metal hitting metal, but in a way he wasn't used to. The clash and clang of weaponry had a very familiar ring to it, and this was certainly different. Whatever had collided was moving at an unbelievable velocity, something too fast to even see. Well...that means it wasn't his skull, right?

So he must be alive, as something else hit something else. Whatever it was must have been close...his ears had stopped ringing after a second, but they were originally. His cheek hurt. It felt like something had hit him, but he didn't know what. Did something metal hit him in the cheek?

Wait, so he's alive?

_You're alive._

He heard ringing, and metal on metal, and he feels pain. That must mean that he's alive. He feels something heavy on his back, but not as heavy as him. It threw him down; it must have been moving at a high velocity as well. He was able to knock that ogre around rather well yesterday, and it was twice his weight. This thing on his back was less than his weight.

There was sensation in his limbs, but things were still dark. Was there a bag on his head? How long had he been lying there thinking like this? Yes, he was lying down; he felt the ground. His fell to the ground when something smaller than him jumped on his back at a high velocity and pushed him down. The thoughts were all fit within milliseconds. He hadn't been down that long. When his cheek hit the ground, it must have dazed him for a few seconds.

If he had been pushed down and hit his cheek, he should stay down. What if he's injured? Getting up right away could make things worse. Now is the time to just feel, feel the situation out. The thing on his back was moving from the beginning, up and down. Breathing. It was something alive. The ringing was gone, and he heard voices. They were some distance away, and they were shouting. Shouting in what? He understood some words and not others; it must be Common. And he had just been talking in Darnassian. And his thoughts were in a mixture of Zandali and Orcish. All four languages he knew had been firing off; the words jumbled around in his head, a mess of confusion.

Whoa! Light! It didn't hurt his eyes, but it came fast as a wall was lifted from him. Nothing had been touching his head; there was a long wall angled such that his entire field of vision had been covered. The wall had been covering the flattened, rocky flooring of a ledge hanging over a rammed earth slope.

Yes, the dizziness was gone now. The two campers had let him stay. Yes. The wall had two leather straps on it, with an armored forearm held through them. The top of the first was armored, but the palm of the purple - no, a deep muave - hand was uncovered. Whatever - whoever - was on his back sat up, moving sideways off of Khujand's ass and pulling a leg to the side. Alright, they were kneeling at his side now. Someone placed a hand on the back of his neck.

"Khujand, can you hear me? Hey, wake up, alright?" It was a woman's voice. Husky, sort of breathy like she had been running when she hadn't. Cecilia Hearthglen. The elf with inauthentic looking armor, an inauthentic sounding name and a mysterious, piercing, very authentic stare.

He rose up to his hands and knees, taking his time. "Yeah," he muttered, "I hear ya." Rolling back to sit down, he kept his legs out in front of him and looked around. She wrapped her arm around his shoulder and kneeled around the front of him, inspecting his cheek.

Down from the ledge, he saw the disturbance. Irien was down there now. Irien Rainsong. The talkitive one who was mean, then nice, then pretending to be mean but actually nice. Alright, he was starting to remember things. She was shouting and doing her hand-waving thing again. They were across the rammed-earth path on the slope and among the trees. The sound had come from the trees. There was...a surprisingly young-looking dwarf? With a gun, but not Irien's gun? So the dwarf shot him. But dwarves are good shots; why wasn't Khujand hurt? Why is Irien shouting but not hitting him? Why was there a draenei woman flailing her arms even more manically than Irien? Why can't things just make sense sometimes?

Khujand moved to stand, turning over and pushing himself up. Cecilia grabbed his right hand with her own, and he noticed that she hadn't readied a weapon; where had the sound come from? He rotated his head and saw her left arm: a very long, hexagonal tower shield was strapped to her arm, the jet black trim and shade of silver on the face of it which matched her armor reminding him of how the cavalry of the night elves - the original, old school huntresses - dressed during the Third War.

The tower shield was also a goblin-made imitation of elven work and - wait, why was there a piece of smoldering buckshot?

It clicked: the dwarf had tried to shoot him. Irien jumped down to stop the dwarf. Cecilia must have leapt the other way to grab her shield. She threw Khujand down, causing him to hit his face in the dirt, and she covered him and absorbed the blast with her shield. So..these two elves were defending him? From another member of the Alliance? Irien was bouncing on the tips of her toes, the draenei female tugging at the mad elf's collar trying to calm her down desperately. The dwarf had turned around, running his hand through his hair and looking to be deep in thought. His rifle was leaning against a tree now.

As Khujand turned toward the three standing about thirty-five yards away, down from the ledge, Cecilia placed her hand on his right shoulder and tried to pull him back. Though she couldn't force him had he wanted to be a stubborn idiot, he did still have enough common sense to move a step back and watched as she placed herself directly in front of him, her back to his chest. She obviously had at least some training despite her second rate gear; donning thorium plate, she instinctively put the less armored person behind her. It was actually quite...endearing. Cecilia and Irien were both night elves, people who were supposed to revile his race in general and jungle trolls in particular for their membership in the Horde. They hadn't even known him for two hours yet, and were already sticking up for him staunchly. From what he knew of their culture, their offer to let him stay was something serious; if harm came to him, they might consider it a dishonor to themselves as hosts.

Standing up straight, Khujand was more than tall enough to get a clear view over the top of Cecilia's head. Irien had calmed down now despite the draenei tugging at her vest, and he could distinctly make out the sound of the dwarf apologizing (though not to the person he had actually tried to shoot). Sizing them up was almost instinctual and unquestionable, though he always had difficulty guessing the weight of dwarves. The youthful Wildhammer dwarf was perhaps four and a half feet tall and by the looks of his dark brown work pants and shirt and matching work boots, he was a civilian; aside from the rifle, he didn't have any weapons on him. That he still had a full head of hair - quaintly matching his clothing - implied that he was inexperienced, perhaps under fifty years old.

The draenei woman, taller than Irien and shorter than Cecilia, was also obviously a civilian. She was wearing an outfit that almost matched that of the dwarf - the difference being the lower cut of the neck and shorter sleeves on her shirt and the higher cut of her pant legs; having hooves, she didn't need boots. Her skin and eyes were an ocean turqoise color but with hair a strange...wait, did her hair also match that of the dwarf and their uniforms? Bah, didn't matter. They're obviously townies, Khujand thought. As long as the dwarf had put the gun down, he didn't need to worry about them.

"When I'm running at you waving my hands around," he could overhear Irien urging the dwarf in exasperation, "that's when!"

It was hard to tell without the proper context, but he guessed she was telling the dwarf how he could know when to shoot or not shoot somebody in the face. Wait...where had he been aiming? Did Khujand just almost...?

"Cecilia, I...think ya might have just saved my life," he whispered to her, leaning closer but taking extra care not to come into physical contact.

She turned her head back to look at him, but stayed out in front protectively. "Don't worry, he's a terrible shot. It would have hurt badly but you would have lived." She looked forward and then turned her head back to him again. "We allowed you to join us, we wouldn't let you get seriously hurt."

"Thank ya. I mean it."

She nodded and stepped forward, and he made sure to stay behind her. "He's here to help the Cenarion Circle do research on a cure for some infectious illness," she interjected. The dwarf looked up at her and the draenei shifted between looking at everything and everyone every few seconds.

"He needs to get to Beastwatch within a few days as well. He has a _lot_ of clean drinking water as well as spices and olive oil. And weapons. It would take pressure off of Irien and I if he stayed." She was getting right to the point.

The uniformed dwarf seemed nervous and moved sideways to get a better look at the hulking, skulking troll hanging behind. "Hey! Hey! I'm sorry," he spoke in an unnecessarily loud voice with his hands up in an overtly apologetic manner. "We've already been attacked out here! I don't know ye and thought ye were robbing the camp! I really didn'a know! Hey, our interpreter, he's Horde like ye! We help people communicate during the campaign, we don'a want to fight ye either!" Irien must have told him what Khujand was saying earlier about not wanting to fight their faction anymore.

"Why cant everybody stop the shoutings!" the draenei shouted louder than everyone else, her shoulders trembling. If she was still a nervous wreck from a single gunshot, she likely wouldn't make it on postal roads in such hostile territory for long.

"Nobody is shouting anymore except you, Anushka," Irien scolded as she blew a bright indigo strand away from her face.

Anushka. There's another name. Irien looked back to the dwarf. "Vegnus, where are Yara and the others?"

Wow, two more names. Wait, wasn't Vegnus supposed to be draenei too? His understanding of pronoun usage in Darnassian must be rusty.

"The talbuk needed a rest, but they're right behind us," Vegnus the stereotype-breakingly non-gruff dwarf answered. "They should be here in just a few minutes now. In fact, they probably heard the...eh...gunshot." He ran his hand through his full head of hair again, looking a bit embarrassed.

In a way that couldn't be more comedically cliche, the voice of another draenei female drifted out from the jungle as more footsteps could be heard approaching. "We heard a gunshot! Is everything alright?" the voice shouted. That had to have been the weirdest timing ever.

She emerged slowly and stepped carefully around all the spiky plants, fluffy ferns and rough rocks as she approached the sloping path. Two men - an orc and another draenei - were dragging a spooked talbuk by the reins, doing their best to guide its wide form between the trees. The new draenei female froze when she saw someone even taller than Cecilia standing there.

"Do we have another traveler here?" She sounded surprisingly friendly considering the fact that they were in an unpoliced area and facing a very large jungle troll with wounds from a fight.

The orc beamed when he saw Khujand and waved with a goofy smile. "Hey there," he shouted up at the ledge in Common with an unnecessarily loud voice like Vegnus had done. "I'm so glad I'm not the only Hord-"

"Please everybody stop the fightings!" The entire group stared at Anushka for a moment before Irien sighed impatiently and led her up the ledge by the arm while the other draenei female patted her on the back.

* * *

This group seemed to be fueled by awkward silences, because it wasn't until after another long one that they finally returned to the makeshift camp and began unpacking tents and supplies from the talbuk. Once they finished, the animal promptly plopped itself down against the sheer rock walk behind the tents and disappeared among some paper and cloth rubbish and wood refuse.

Irien and Anushka rummaged through all the travel bags, spreading out canvas sheets and placing equipment and utensils on them. Each of the civilians - Yaromira, her husband Kiul, Vegnus, Anushka and the orc Sandash - had their own travel bag carried on their backs and the talbuk had been carrying a bag each for the two elves and two more for equipment. The dwarf and three draenei all wore matching dark brown outfits and were clearly part of a professional organization. Sandash was wearing the pants and tabard of a peon, the lower class laborers of orc society, and a pair of work boots. They had apparently just grabbed him at random when they were first allowed inside Beastwatch after much negotiation. Having to protect these people twenty four hours a day was likely an exhausting task for the two elves. Although Khujand was aware of his own low self-esteem, he was also aware of the fact that he looked intimidating - especially toward members of the Alliance - and that they were probably glad to have someone like him around to help protect the group until they finished their work in the valley.

Cecilia sat across from Khujand on the log to his right, right next to Yaromira and Kiul. They were both wearing wedding bands and she was fawning over an arm injury he had sustained from a podling that had thrown a rock at him. It was touching, in a weird way, though he had to fight off guilt every time he viewed these members of the opposing faction fondly knowing his home - for now - was with his own in Thunder Pass. Across to his left were Vegnus and Sandash. As he was in the beginning, the jungle troll was sitting with his back to the edge on a log all to himself.

"So they need us to survey the valley you see out there," explained Vegnus as he motioned to his left at the huge sprawl of green grass and blue ponds stretching for miles and miles. "It's exact dimensions will affect shipping from Highpass and Beastwatch into Frostfire, where we hope to expand."

Yaromira, the site manager splitting shifts with Vegnus, jumped in eagerly. "Your settlement at Thunder Pass is the likely next location for our operations. Really, we respect what heroes like you do so much, but what civilians do is also very important. The world couldn't function without communication and transportation, and the decrease in hostilities between the Alliance and the Horde also opens up business opportunities for those who want to connect the people of the world."

The details of surveying and mapping terrain were lost on the jungle troll, and his anxiety creeped back in despite the colorful group's resounding acceptance of his presence. They had sheets of canvas with writing utensils which were neither ink nor lead, and their various binoculars, telescopes and weird measuring doohickeys were all as intimidating to him and he was to the group. At least the details of the travel plan were clear. They were going to stay on that ledge for two more days - why they needed two days to map and measure the valley instead of one was beyond him, but what did he know - and would then return to Beastwatch on foot, leaving at sunrise and arriving in the late afternoon assuming they only stopped to eat lunch. Once they arrived, Khujand would be able to rest on a real bed as Yaromira insisted that a makeshift inn had been established despite word on the street in Thunder Pass stating otherwise. If he hadn't found any infected podlings to slice up before then, he would be able to catch some sleep before finding them near the township and then handing them off to the druids there. Whether his hearthstone would be functional or not was a bridge he would cross when he go to it.

In the middle of the explanation, the spastic draenei Anushka sat down on the log next to Khujand nonchalantly, not realizing that she had ripped a huge hole in his comfort zone by leaving only a few inches between them. As much as he enjoyed having female friends after six years of almost never seeing any women at all other than simply passing by travelers at the main gate of Shadowprey, the physical closeness to an unknown woman was something he didn't know how to react to.

Irien had crouched next to Cecilia and was whispering something to her in Darnassian; it wasn't loud enough for him to hear due to the cupped hand over Cecilia's ear and it wasn't a language Yaromira or Kiul would have understood. They had been whispering to each other whenever they were out of earshot since the rest of the group had arrived, and Cecilia had started the odd habit of staring at Khujand out of the corner of her eye when she thought he wasn't looking. He had managed to make eye contact a few times, though they would both immediately look away. It was somewhat comforting to meet a companion with social skills almost as poor as his own.

Irien rose and moved to sit on the other side of Khujand even closer than Anushka had, though the discomfort wasn't there. She had proven to be a friend despite her initial aggression, and he could almost deal with her like he did with Zorena or Ushka. He wondered how they would react if they knew he was completing the quest by appealing to a party of mostly Alliance for help after losing his frostwolf.

"Yara, I'm fine watching the group and the camp during the day. I have no problem with it," Irien said as she tapped her diurnal day-vision goggles. "The night time will require more security to protect everyone while we sleep and Cici doesn't have eye protection from the sun. So - since we're providing protection, I think we're in a good position to divide this up - we think that Cici and Khujand should sleep for now and then take the night shift protecting the camp. We'll need both of them when we're all asleep."

Khujand shifted uncomfortably on his log. As logical as the plan was - both Irien's explanation and the fact that Cecilia was quite capable - he still felt uneasy given that the suggestion came after the two had been colluding with each other.

_This isn't prison; stop being paranoid_, his inner voice chimed in. _They reacted poorly at first because you scared them, and they've shown you nothing but kindness since._

"It sounds reasonable, Vegnus," Yaromira directed at the dwarf, "don't you think?"

Vegnus stroked his beard while peering from the armored elf to the the robust troll. "I wouldn't want to be the plant monster that wanders into a camp protected by these two at night," he chuckled.

Cecilia wasn't hiding the fact that she was staring at Khujand again. He tried to stare back, but when she didn't look away he was forced to do so first. Was she...angry that he hadn't thanked her profusely enough for saving him? Was she...happy that she would have help at night? She was being so guarded with her facial expressions, just sitting there with her knees bent slightly out in front of her, he right elbow on her knee as she picked at the edge of her lip by the right corner of her mouth with a slightly shaky hand that no one else seemed to notice.

Kiul supported Yaromira's hand as she stood up. "Alright, we have three tents so here's the easiest way to respect privacy. That -" she pointed to the furthest away of the three tents in a row against the rock wall and sleeping talbuk - "is the men's tent. Khujand, you'll sleep there now for the next five hours until sunsent. Vegnus and Sandash, you'll take it during the day. The middle one is for Cici now and Anushka and Irien, you'll take it at night. The last one...well, we're the only ones with wedding bands here," she said with a motion to the solid gold armbands she and Kiul both wore.

"I will start the cookings before the two of you wake up," Anushka directed to Cecilia. She and Khujand began to stand up. "Mister Khujand, you will like the usings of your spices and olive oil, I guarantees it!"

"Whatever I brought here belongs ta all of ya, too," he stated shyly as he fiddled with the single braid sprouting out from the back of his mohawk. Though they were pleased to have him, he felt as though he was getting more out of the deal than the rest of them.

It was only when he stood up that he realized how winded he still was from the bad day yesterday, his sore muscles and gradually healing cuts begging for sleep. There was a moment when Cecilia was focusing on something else that he stole to check her eyes; they were even sleepier than they had been when they met over four hours ago. She caught him looking, but was the first one to look away that time.

"Thank ya all for allowin' me ta come with ya," he practically breathed as he walked backward toward the men's tent. "It ain't easy ta go it alone out here."

"Go what alone?" asked Kiul sincerely. Yaromira whispered a translation to him as Vegnus and Irien snickered.

Crouching down and crawling inside the tent, Khujand was taken both by the size - it had looked so small folded up - and the hard surface of the ground. Unfolding the bedspread, he was able to relax and he removed his shoes, gloves, bracers, shinguards and pauldrons - taking care that nobody heard them snapping off. Making sure that the zipper was closed, he removed his loincloth, protective cup and even his underwear, making sure that his naked midsection only touched his own personal bedsheet and not the blankets, which would be used by Vegnus and Sandash later. The pillow was small for his head, but it felt heavenly with his arm tucked underneath it for extra leverage as he lied on his side.

Sleep was quick despite the chattering of the group who he hoped would be the first members of the Alliance he could call friends. Initially, he was able to dream of them transforming into his friends at Thunder Pass and back again, though as often happened he was eventually drowned by memories of his war crimes. The screams could be heard in the distance as his vision went black, forcing him to fight the urge to swat at the apparitions begging him for mercy from torture long since inflicted.

With a final twitch, his body became still. At least it was restful for his body, even if his mind tormented him the whole five hours.


	5. Patrol

"Good evening Mister Khuja - OH!"

The sound of a zipper was the first thing that woke him, followed by Anushka's cry. Stretching his back, he noticed that his cuts had already closed up and the muscle pain was gone. Nothing helps like hyperactive regeneration. And warmth...Gorgrond is so much nicer than Frostfire Ridge. Even the night was warm and humid. Opening his eyes, he could see the light from a campfire shining outside as there was a hushed conversation.

"It was so bi...oh, the seeings were inappropriate!"

Grumbling at the implication that the members of the Alliance whom he had to maintain a professional relationship with were discussing his...ahem, well, he promptly dressed himself and allowed his growling stomach to guide him. Something smelled _incredible_. Possibly eggs; what he would give for an entire basket all to himself right now. The thought caused him to mix up between his left and right shinguards and he took a bit longer than usualy donning what little clothing and armor he wore. Squeezing out of the tent was more difficult than entering had been; how would Vegnus and Sandash share this thing?

Upon exiting, he was in awe of how experienced this group was at camping. Several tarps had been laid down for sitting, though at a safe distance from the fire which was now ringed with medium sized stones and burning with similarly sized logs arranged in a teepee. There were two drying racks for clothing and some odd stand for holding more tools with purposes he couldn't comprehend. Somehow, the talbuk was still sleeping in the same spot it had been in five hours ago. Down in the mouth of the valley, he could see Yaromira, Vegnus, Kiul and Sandash approaching with their hands full of maps and equipment and Yaromira projecting some sort of light-generating spell. Anushka, Irien and Cecilia had all managed to fit on the same log, sitting so close that Anushka could barely move. When he noticed the draenei wedged in the middle, he had a feeling the poor spaz was in for some torture.

All three women were silent as Khujand sat down across from them. There were already some seasoned fried eggs and an assortment of boiled berries and root vegetables waiting on a hand towel by his log, along with a cup of water. It wasn't as much food as he would have liked, but it was still larger than the portions the three women had been eating judging by the size of the oil stains on their own hand towels.

Irien was grinning ear to ear with an arm wrapped around Anushka's shoulder and even Cecilia was smiling again. The draenei was staring at the bright campfire, shaking her head as she hugged herself.

"So, Khujand," Irien started up with a mischevious grin. "Did you sleep well?"

She cocked an eyebrow up inquisitively. With her eyes finally uncovered, her personality seemed ten times larger and it felt as though she occupied the entire ledge with her voice and expressions. He only laughed with his mouth closed around egg and nodded.

She grabbed Anushka's wrist despite the spaz trying to pull away and whispered something that was probably also traumatizing in her ear. The poor woman just kept frowning and shaking her head as though she had seen one of the Old Ones with her own eyes. Cecilia pinched Anushka's forearm, though her only reaction was to wiggle it slightly.

By the time the rest of the group had reached the ledge and unloaded their gear, the four that were seated had finished their meals and the surveyors were ready to begin theirs. There was minimal talking aside from Irien's briefing of Khujand and Cecilia on where they would need to patrol, where were possible areas of ambush, what were the best vantage points and where to find bodies of water.

"Ye all suited up and ready te go, then?" asked Vegnus. His beard and hair almost turned a light gold color in the light of the fire. His face didn't exhibit the age lines of the few dwarves Khujand had seen before.

"I'll need a few minutes to finish with my helmet, glaive and shield," Cecilia answered. She looked back at Khujand casually, probably loosened up from having a good laugh at Anushka's expense. "You take the high road, I'll take the low road?"

There was no reason to refuse any suggested plan at this point anyway. "Yep, I can strap on my weapons in a minute and start patrollin'." He stood up, happy to be around people who accepted him so easily but needing a break alone to himself, if anything just to mentally take in all that had happened in the past thirty-six hours. "Thanks for tha meal Ushk - er, Anushka. Ya a great cook." Although she continued staring into the campfire like someone who had seen the thing that should not be, she went from shaking her head to nodding at him and then back to shaking her head again.

For the first time since the two elves almost attacked him, he was able to touch his own weapons again at the back of the camp. With his knife sheathed on his belt and his glaive and club strapped to his back, he felt whole again. The others were still enjoying a quiet chat after their meal before sleeping and Cecilia was attaching her glaive and shield with assistance from Irien, the two of them whispering to each other just out of hearing range. Vegnus pulled a small hand-played drum from his personal bag, which seemed a poor decision given the attention it could draw, but Kiul's positive reaction seemed to override Yaromira's chiding.

Feeling a bit out of place given that everyone knew each other and that he was technically an outsider and member of an opposing faction, Khujand took his leave and moved east, followed the main road that was lined by inpenetrable jungle on both sides and searched for the dirt path leading off to the north that would take him in a loop back to the camp. With his voodoo magic returning to him after weeks out of prison, his eyes had started glowing slightly at night time which helped him to see a bit better in the dark. That, and the moonlight.

"I'm just patrollin'," he muttered to himself. "Gonna check out that pond Irien mentioned, and move on. Just do my job." Once he was by himself, his head began reeling a bit as he tried to comprehend his current situation - lost in Gorgrond with no mount, relying on a group of Alliance for whenever they decided to return to his destination.

* * *

It took perhaps five minutes of brisk walking, but once off the beaten track Khujand managed to find the wellspring in a clearing that Irien had mentioned along with some needed solitude to collect his thoughts. The water was still and clear, as beautiful as any of those wells of the moon that he had seen in Ashenvale. There in that clearing, he could almost see out but nobody could see in - the jungle was too dense. He could hear the sounds wafting in from the outside, but he couldn't be heard. It was almost like a private room, just begging for somebody to come enjoy it. He had a clear view of the stars while there, and he just paused and looked up.

"Supposed to just be patrollin'..." he mumbled again, not realizing he had been talking out loud. The entire clearing was so beautiful, so serene, and the longer he stood there, the more he felt that it wouldn't be so bad to just stay.

_The camp isn't within view but Vegnus' drum is within earshot,_ his inner voice tempted him. _Everything is safe for now. It wouldn't be wrong to take some time to yourself._

"Maybe I just need ta...figure things out..." He stroked his short beard absentmindedly, shifting from staring at the spring to staring at the stars.

Six years, he marveled as he wondered where all the time had gone. It wasn't an eternity, but considering that he was only twenty-seven years old, it was a significant portion of his life. Six years and a few months ago, he was waking up every morning next to a woman he barely even knew, getting dressed for a job he hated and torturing people whom he didn't hate, cursing his life as he drank and smoked himself to sleep every night. Then five years and a few months of his living hell, in the worst slave pen they called a prison that he could imagine. Waking up every single day to drag enormous trees to a saw mill, march a few miles back out to the woods to...drag more trees. Or break big rocks into little rocks. Or clean the pig sties by hand. With lots of whippings in between.

He had given up hope. He really, truly had. He was ready to just finish out his full sentence and then be dumped in a wasteland to die of starvation. And most strikingly...he felt like he would deserve it. Khujand tortured people. The name change that went along with the identity swap didn't change a thing. What he had done was an abomination, a violation of all that was good, pure and holy on Azeroth. He damaged his restrained victims physically, and traumatized them mentally. There was no mercy for people like him...

_Why do you still dwell on this?_

His subconscious plea to his conscious gave him pause. What was he trying to achieve, really? He had spent so long convincing himself of his own evil, of the notion that he deserved whatever horrible things came his way. While in prison, his psyche survived based on that thought; if he couldn't believe that he was below any sort of kindness and mercy in life, he wouldn't have been able to reconcile with his indictment...

"What's done is done," he said while shaking his head to nobody but himself in the clearing, pushing those thoughts out. The soft sand crunched underneath his two-toed shoes, creating a sound so soothing to his ears that focusing on the positive became unnaturally easy.

Whether he liked it or not, he was on parole, treated as an elite soldier and living in a settlement where a growing circle of friends seemed to like having him around. Now he was with another group he hoped he could call friends - and all but one were members of the Alliance, no less. It still felt slightly treasonous, but that was part of why it felt so thrilling. He was breaking rules and meeting new, interesting people. The campaign against the Iron Horde was going steady; in less than a year, he would likely be allowed to return to Azeroth.

Perhaps things weren't so bad, he felt.

"Hmmmm..." he hummed as he tested out his vocal chords, a habit he hadn't even realized he picked up whenever he felt those brief glimmers of hope in his heart, fighting so hard to convince him that he might be redeemable one day.

Glancing around to see that he was totally alone, he decided to take the risk of unwinding after a stressful beginning in Gorgrond and removed his weapons and wooden pauldrons, laying them on the ground near the edge of the clearing. Standing again, he suddenly felt less restrained, and more able to focus on the stars shining above the sky and the sand shifting beneath his feet.

What Khujand would do once he returned to Azeroth, he didn't know. Probably go back to the Barrens - where else would he go? Where could he live? His future terrified him as he realized that the new friends he had made on Draenor would assuredly forget about him once the campaign was over. He would be alone again, without anyone to care for him or even bury him were he to die in the wastes. But Kalimdor was home now, even if he had to adopt the fake identity of a bandit outlaw. It wasn't a good history to have, but then again neither was that of a war criminal. Garot'jin the torturer was now Khujand the robber.

_Stop dwelling on it. Think positive thoughts you fool!_

"Positive...thoughts..." he breathed out, trying to regulate his intake of air as Kuma had taught him.

There were moments when he was truly content with what he had, but in his heart he knew that actual happiness was a whole other level that he felt unable to achieve. He wondered how normal people - people who didn't have so much blood on their hands - relaxed. What did they do? Did they chase stray cats in the alleyway? Did they get drunk and sing out of key in groups? Fun for him had consisted of 'tic-tac-toe in the dirt with other prisoners' and 'not getting scourged with a bullwhip' for so many years that he had difficulty remembering what exactly to do with his leisure time.

Khujand stared down at the sandy shoreline of the wellspring. It was so soft, without any jagged rocks. So inviting. It reminded him of Durotar. It was painful to think of his old home...very painful. He was legally barred from ever setting foot in southern Durotar again, as part and parcel of the new identity his lawyer had negotiated for him. He would never be allowed to see his two children again. It was painful to remember...yet nostalgic, in a way.

"Just for old times sake," he muttered as he kneeled down and removed his leather two-toed shoes. He had patrolled. His long ears didn't pick up any sounds other than Vegnus' surprisingly skilled drumming. The camp was safe. It wouldn't be wrong...

Laying his shoes next to his weapons, Khujand could finally feel the sand on the soles of his feet. He wiggled his large toes and closed his eyes, remembering his youth first on Darkspear Isle and later in Sen'jin Village (he had been too young for Stranglethorn Vale to remain in his memory). There was no wind in Gorgrond that night, though he could almost imagine he was on the beach in Durotar, pulling the crab meat out of some _klakka_ with his friends. It was such a nice home, before his own choices had shattered that...

_Positive thoughts._

"Yeah," he sighed to himself, realizing that he would appear to be a crazy person were anybody watching him. "I got it."

Letting his mind wander and loosening up, he tried to let the still night air, faint sound of the drum and serene surroundings envelope him. He allowed his arms to hang limp as he glanced at the bottom of the wellspring. It was, at the most, three feet deep at one end. The bottom was sandy save a few smooth, safe looking rocks. There were only a few leaves floating on the surface and no animals to be seen living inside. The whole diameter was no more than ten feet, and the deepest end dropped at a steep incline that would even allow him to sit on the edge with his lower legs dangling in the water.

He was finally alone. Nobody to judge him or embarrass him. HE was the only thing making himself unhappy. So...he must be the only thing that could just let himself unwind and be...well, a silly, content fool.

Two nights the past week, Patina had been kind enough to pull Khujand onto one of the few empty spaces on the floor of the tavern at Thunder Pass and had tried to teach him how to dance again. It was pitiful at first, but her stern external demeanor had suddenly disappeared and she seemed legitimately concerned for her Darkspear friend's level of confidence. By the standards of orcs, Patina was considered quite attractive and she had many admirers. That she had politely asked them to wait for two nights - nights she could have spent with someone that could keep up with her - just so she could coach her socially inept friend had legitimately warmed him in a platonic way. There weren't major improvements in only two nights, but at least he felt like he could try without _literally_ dying of embarrassment. Figuratively...well, one step at a time.

He looked to his left. He looked to his right. He looked to the front and back. Nobody was there. Nobody to stop him from enjoying his new life.

"As good a place as any other," he said to himself a bit louder as it dawned on him that he wouldn't have many other opportunities to practice his moves without being seen now that he didn't even have a room to himself at Ushka's inn. All was quiet. The camp was safe. Nobody was there to see him. There was even some faint music in the background.

Removing his shinguards and his gloves with a quiet, self-deprecating snicker, he laid them on the flatter edge of the well and felt the wetter sand at the very edge beneath his feet. Taking one last look to be safe, he removed the raptor feathers held to his thighs with leather straps and laid them down next to everything else. Taking a deep breath, he waded out until his feet, ankles and a bit of his calves were submerged. The water temperature was similar to that of the night air, just how he liked it.

He tried not to splash too much in case he needed to listen to anyone - or anything - sneaking up on him. He didn't feel stupid like he had worried he would when he first tried dancing in front of people two nights ago. He didn't feel like the sky was falling because of him or like he was a living joke. He felt like someone who was just free enough to control his own life again, even if he used that control to dance like a fool by himself under the moonlight.

What was it, then, he thought to himself. How does this stuff even work?

_Two steps forward, one step back._

Alright. Wait, what was he supposed to do with his hands while moving like that? He tried keeping one palm up and one palm down and alternating with his arms out to his sides before he realized his upper and lower body were doing two different dances.

He couldn't help but laugh at himself, and when he did he realized that there was nothing wrong with it. There was nothing wrong with being silly and unwinding if that's what he wanted to do. Rolling his shoulders, he felt a calming tingle run between his eyes as he tried to find his chi, or whatever the drunken monk trainer at Thunder Pass had tried to tell him before passing out a week ago.

In his jubilation, he lost track of where his feet were moving and almost stumbled. His left leg fell underneath the surface of the water up to the knee before he caught his balance, and he was delighted when he didn't even care if it was up to his knee or he had fallen in.

"Complicated..." he chuckled to himself. There was no shame in screwing it up a bit.

Finally able to relax his body just a little more as he danced with himself, his mind was able to drift on to the heavier subject without causing him to panic. Eventually, he would need to think about his future, and what he would actually _do_ with his second chance.

Where would he go when the Iron Horde finally fell?

The water sloshing around his shins reminded him of all those times he had tried frantically to swim around his friends on the beach at Darkspear Isle. When Thrall arrived with the orcs on boats from the Eastern Kingdoms, the Darkspear tribe had found kindred spirits and the move to Durotar was an easy decision to make. Now, Khujand was banned from Durotar; the decision about where to live out the rest of his days once back on Azeroth should be a simple one, though, considering that he was free to make it alone.

Alone. That wasn't pessimism; it was simply his reality at this point.

As part of the agreement for his release into a new identity, he had to confess to the war crimes he had committed. His old identity was supposedly executed, and all ties were cut when he was forced to write letters to his mother, his ex-wives, his children, his elders at the village, and to the public in general asking that he be forgotten. And even if they didn't forget, he was supposed to be a different person now. He had no family, no friends for longer than a few weeks, no home and nowhere to turn to. He could save a decent amount of money by questing, but what would he do with it? Where would he even try to buy a patch of land in the Barrens without knowing anybody?

Despite the gravity of the situation, dancing helped him to weigh all his options without souring his mood too much. He not only forgot how to dance while in prison, but forgot how good it felt. To just groove like a fool, to just do what he felt like, to just let himself have a good time.

Vegnus' drum mixed with the live music from the tavern those two nights as both melodies played through his mind. He tried to do a dance he saw Toruk doing with Javilla - both palms down, hands pumping forward and backward, feet shifting alternately and opposite his hands. It felt ludicrous, but it was fun! Nobody to share and laugh with him, but nobody to laugh _at_ him either. He spun around toward the direction he came...

...oh...

...SHIT.

Cecilia.

Followed him.

Sat on a large rock.

Watched him.

Didn't say anything.

Crossed her legs and folded her hands over her knee.

How in the bloody hell did she remove her shield and lay it against the rock without making a sound?

_Why is that bad? Maybe she thinks you're a good dancer._

What the hell, he thought at the inner voice. That's not something my subconscious would say to me.

_Well, Irien did mention the wellspring in front of both of you. She has as much a right to be here as you d-_

"You should pay more attention, soldier," Cecilia said in her accented Common with a slight smile that had a pleasant look to it despite the fact that she had basically just stalked him.

It was disconcerting and conflicting. She and Irien had welcomed him into their camp despite not knowing him and being from opposing factions. Then she had saved his life, or at least saved him from a lot of regenerating, when she protected him from that gunblast. Cecilia seemed like a loyal and honorable person; was it a big deal if she felt like watching him dance?

She remained perched on her rock, entirely motionless save her lips as she spoke. The old-school, Third War-era style of huntress helmet left the bottom half of her face uncovered, but comfortably clamped onto her forehead it cast shadows over her eyes that made it difficult to tell just where she was looking. That fact made him feel a bit more self-conscious than he had liked to admit.

_She may very well have saved your life earlier. Her behavior isn't totally abnormal for two people considered new friends._

The words didn't do much to calm his anxiety. Though the jungle troll was aware that he didn't know what 'normal' behavior was exactly, he couldn't find a reason for this woman to have followed him there unless she had already planned to stake the spot out for herself. His mind was racing at a hundred thoughts per minute.

Khujand continued some sort of shimmy that involved pointing his thumbs up back over his shoulder. It even looked ridiculous when other people do it, but so what, he tried (and failed) to convince himself. He went there to enjoy himself, not perform for others.

There was tension mounting in his back muscles despite what he tried to tell himself, but perhaps from the two days of getting over his shyness on the dance floor, he continued on despite being stared at by someone who was neither a stranger nor someone he knew especially well.

Why did she follow him? She didn't know him so well either, or know if he was some creep. He didn't think he was a creep, but she didn't know that. It didn't make sense to him.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw...no...really, Cecilia? Really?

Her glaive and helmet were already off, and she was detaching the leather straps that held on her plate boots and shinguards, slowly and purposefully. She was...oh God, was she going to jump into the water too? He had heard of all the "dancing in the moonwell" jokes about night elves but he knew those were stereotypes. There was no reason for her to do that in front of someone she was still getting to know.

Or...was that his own social anxiety talking? That she seemed so comfortable began to make him doubt his own perception. Oh...he was confused and she had only said one sentence to him, he realized. Why was he stressing so much? He felt like a teenager again.

As her shinguards hit the sand, he could hear her pop the joints in her ankles and knees. Yes, she really was preparing to dance. In the water that he was dancing in. At the same time. From the stories he had heard in taverns and bars, he should be giddy with excitement like any red-blooded male but he mostly felt discomfort and his usual anxiety around women.

Well, he thought, at least she wasn't a troll female. Then he really _would_ die of embarrassment. There's no way he would be able keep up with a Darkspear woman.

"Ouch," Cecilia murmured to herself as one of the clasps on her boots poked into her ankle. As quiet as her voice was, it sent a small shiver up his spine and he pretended it was from a nonexistent breeze.

He tried to pretend he was dismissive and condescending, as though his long crushed ego could provide some protection.

Why were so many men (and women) gaga for the way Kaldorei ladies danced? He never could get it. No women dance like Darkspear women, he thought to himself, period.

_Darkspear women don't like you_, his inner voice shouted at him hard and fast_. You're too beefy for them and your tusks were clipped._

Ouch...why is his own subconscious insulting him in his head? That one actually hurt.

Cecilia was as barefoot and bare-legged as Khujand was now, armored only on her hips and upper body - minus her forehead, which was uncovered now that her half-helmet had been removed. She sat against the front of her rock with her palms behind her to support her body, watching him with that same smile and there was no denying the apprehension in his chest.

Why is she smiling at him like that, he asked himself rhetorically. It wasn't a mocking grin. Had it been, he would have understood; that she seemed to be content watching him was more distressing than had she simply called him a bad dancer and kicked him out of the spring.

_People at taverns often dance with other people they just met, _the voice said. _That's the kind of stuff normal people do. Your faction and hers have agreed to fight the Iron Horde for now, and not each other. It wouldn't be wrong..._

Khujand sighed and put on his polite face; if he was already this torn inside and she hadn't even spoken again, simply waiting around while trying to solve the mystery that was Cecilia was going to simply drive him mad.

"Teach me," he asked as he smiled and tried to hide his chagrin at how ridiculous he must have looked in front of her.

Smiling warmly in a way that made him feel less anxious, she got up and treaded over to his spot in the pool. "I'm not so great myself," she said in that breathy voice of hers.

There was only a yard or so of space between them, the water up to the lower part of her calves as well. She stood for a moment with one hand on her hip, inspecting what he was doing as his pulse surged in fear that that would be the exact moment where he would lose his footing again.

His shoulders swayed opposite of his hips; he kept his elbows bent, pointing both pointer fingers in the same direction as his shoulders. He had no clue what any of these moves would be called, and the longer she just stood there observing him the more he felt like he was only three inches tall next to her. Cecilia surprised him when she swayed into form, mirroring his movements...well, almost _too _exactly, which was unfortunate for both of them.

"Damn, ya really _aren't_ so great a dancer," he joked with a grin and slightly widened eyes. Khujand went from feeling embarrassed for his dancing to feeling embarrassed for them both.

She didn't show any reaction in her expression, continuing to smile despite being the butt of his joke.

"We have more in common than we thought, then," she shot right back at him with a tone that...wait, was she teasing him?

The fact that she not only danced as comically bad as he did but also didn't mind trading barbs helped him to relax a little. That she seemed so relaxed herself helped him even more. Maybe this wasn't so bad, but she didn't really know him and perhaps should be more cautious about violent-looking trolls she meets in the woods. He didn't really know her and coupled with the fact that he was both fascinated by and terrified of women in general, he was questioning why he didn't want to find an excuse to leave the clearing.

And yet there he was, actually enjoying himself. She wasn't laughing at him; she only seemed to make fun in response to his doing so, and she wasn't gawking at him like he was a circus freak. Maybe they were just two travelers who didn't mind extra company and assistance while questing and had just chosen the same spot to unwind that night.

As they danced, she moved far closer to him than he was used to, as close as Patina had been. There was nothing erotic about the dance at all; it was just the way a woman might dance next to a really, really close friend. Like him and Patina. **Not** like him and Cecilia.

They continued to groove right up against each other and the elf seemed content to continue that way. He felt a pounding against his chest as he chided himself on the one hand for not being able to just feel without thinking and chastised himself on the other for not backing away when the dance no longer felt casual. She just met him, he thought for the umpteenth time. They barely knew each other. This was way too close, even if she did seem so relaxed. But...

_...but it's nice. You're having fun. Stop overanalyzing and just dance._

Cecilia raised an eyebrow as they moved around one another and he prayed that his cheeks hadn't darkened as she now very clearly had noticed how she was affecting him...

No, wait, he thought. Affecting me? He felt as though his outer shell was being pried open without his permission.

With his left foot planted a bit further forward than his right foot, he leaned forward with his right shoulder. Cecilia was still mirroring him, and they both snorted small laughs through their noses at how silly they must have looked. Despite his increasing heart rate, undeniable concern for what this woman thought of him and the nervousness she was thrusting on him knowingly or unknowingly, the muscles in his back hadn't felt so loose in such a long time. It seemed like a contradiction.

She and he leaned the other way now, his shoulder brushing against hers. He noticed her arm twitch at the same exact time as his, a slight tingle shooting through him like he hadn't felt in years.

Khujand had never been attracted to elves; they were too delicate and fragile. Troll women were the most beautiful women on Azeroth in his eyes; it was some sort of a cruel joke that he preferred his own people, yet by the standards of jungle trolls he was unattractive and overly sensitive.

_Stop moping and dance._

Well, come to think of it, Cecilia was different up close. The night elves' loss of their immortality had affected many of them, even causing a handful to simply die of old age. Her natural hair color must have been an indigo a shade darker than Irien's. He knew because the color was still visible in her roots - though it was very faded and greying upon inspection - despite the azure colored hair dye she he could tell she used. From far away, her hair was an azure color just a shade darker than Khujand's skin, but up close he noticed the roots. Grey hair was not normal for night elves, not even as they aged; it couldn't have been from natural causes.

The facial tattoos which were a right of passage for women in her culture were of two halves of a broken shield on each side of her face, yet the violet-blue color wasn't even throughout. Khujand found it perplexing; night elves were supposed to be meticulous about that - it was _the_ most significant identifier of a girl's passage into womanhood. Cecilia's facial tattoo looked normal from afar but amateurish up close. He couldn't spy the extensive tattoos all over her thighs, calves, neck and arms when standing so close, but they were also violet-blue and didn't have any obvious discoloring.

Her dim eyes were what caught him the most - caught him with such a grip that he didn't even realize that they were both staring into each others' souls for so long, or for that matter, that they had been dancing right up against each other for so long. Cecilia didn't have wrinkles or any facial blemishes, but the dull silver of her eyes didn't shine as brightly as that of other night elves; normally, the entirety of their eye anatomy was one indistinguishible burning glow of bright silver. For Cecilia, the light crysal blue irises and faintly glowing silver pupils were as visible and discernible from one another as from the white surrounding them. It was as though some of her life force had faded away. Gazing into them caused him to feel a painful sort of sympathy that he couldn't justify or explain.

By the standards of her own people, she was deeply flawed. Like...well, like he was by the standards of his.

_You have more in common than you thought_, his inner voice chimed in.

She's...well...he wanted to keep looking at her. The fact that she was looking at him felt like good enough of an excuse. Cecilia was like a collection of perfect imperfections, and it was...well, it was lovely. There, he thought it without denial. She was absolutely lovely.

Khujand hadn't realized how impossibly close she had moved to him and a quick tingle shot up his spine when she took his right hand in her left assertively, placing her right hand on his left shoulder and pulling him closer. Warning alarms were going off in his head as he placed his left hand on her lower back, but he ignored everything other than the dance which he felt guilty for enjoying so much.

He could feel her left hand trembling, and now he knew that what he had observed before wasn't nervousness or fatigue; she was recovering from substance abuse. Khujand hadn't been a heavy user for long, but he knew it when he saw it. After almost six years in prison with all sorts of lowlifes, he recognized a former addict anywhere. Her hand tremors were so light that she had obviously been sober for a long time and it was most likely psychological rather than physiological. The thought of Cecilia hurting herself like that also hurt him to even imagine, yet he didn't know why he would feel that way about her.

He still didn't know this woman well enough, not as anything more than a new friend; why is it that the more he looked into those faded eyes shining a weak light onto a very real smile, he sensed a deep sadness that was just as real? How could he even detect it? He shouldn't be able to read so deeply into someone he just met. But he knew, no matter what anybody could tell him, that he had peeked inside her mind.

"Your pace is getting better," she said in that low, husky voice of hers. No wait, she said it in a regular, nondescript voice. The end. Why low and husky? Don't think like that.

_Why not?_

"I'm just tryin' ta keep up with ya." His voice came back as breathy and heavy as hers. Wait, what?

They were slow dancing as the treasonous feeling tried to creep back in. He had lost his mount, possibly broken his hearthstone, and was wasting precious time slow dancing with a member of the Alliance in a moonwell under the stars. This is wrong. It should feel wrong. So why doesn't it feel wrong at all?

"Your accent is much less noticeable when you speak Darnassian," she said with a lick of her lips so subtle he had to lower his gaze slightly to notice it.

"I have some experience, ya could say," said a voice that sounded like his but was now beyond his control.

Every time he tried to take the lead, she would tug at his hand again, pulling him where she wanted to move. He relented, allowing her to guide him. Even if they were both poor dancers, it was fun to be led by her. He didn't have to think, didn't have to overanalyze, and could just feel. There must have been a time in his life when that was possible. It must have been long ago, as he couldn't even remember when such a time was.

"Say something to me in Zandali," the Amazonian elf demanded. She leaned her head closer to his simultaneously with the creeping in of a half-smile from the left side of her mouth that forced a full smile out of him. What kind of game is this?

_Don't ask. Just play._

I don't like elves, he thought to himself. They aren't alluring.

_This one is._

Ugh, you win. "I feel conflicted, cause I was never into elves but now I can't stop lookin' at ya," he whispered in his mother tongue. No. No, that isn't true. That's not how it happened. He said it in a normal speaking voice. And his heart didn't 'flutter' at her reaction, either.

_Denial._

Her smile grew wider, spanning both sides of her mouth as her eyes narrowed.

"Did ya understand?" he asked in Darnassian again.

Those faintly shining silver orbs locked onto his faintly shining electric reds and he could have sworn that he witnessed her pupils dilate.

"Some things don't need to be translated." That was definitely a whisper. She whispered to him. He couldn't deny it anymore.

The alarms were louder than his inner voice now. She was close to him, too close. They were sharing body heat. The anxiety hit him like a brick wall and without any warning. This shouldn't feel right. This can't feel right. They just met. They barely know each other. Fear gripped him, but fear of what, he couldn't pinpoint. Fear of the unknown? Fear of being rejec...no, no, don't let this train of thought run any further. Returning to the most effective defense mechanism he knew, Khujand crawled inside of himself.

_Wait! Wait! It's okay! Strangers can dance with each other,_ the voice tried to reassure him. _Normal people do that all the time. Just relax and let fate decide!_

No, he shouted inside of his own head, think of something else. Think of someone else. Oh! Patina! She's Patina. That's right, you're not committing treason, you're dancing with your friend Patina.

_No!_

There weren't that many other people dancing at the time, which increased his anxiety a bit. What if the other patrons noticed him and laughed? Patina pulled him up anyway, slapping him on the shoulder as she tried to tell him to be more confident. Patina's orcish dancing was a bit raunchier than slow dancing, but he could imagine that it was different. Anything to pull his mind back to Thunder Pass.

Yeah...Patina had danced close to him that night, too. There was zero romantic interest or awkwardness between them. The awkwardness was about the people watching. He could imagine they were gone, too, all of them except his group of friends.

He held his hand up in the air with his elbow crooked, and Patina pressed her palm against his. They took turns cocking their chins one after the other. It was a bit goofy for her taste, but fun. Clasping her fingers with his now, he twirled her around slowly, noticing as she grew in height to come face-to-face with him.

"Garot'jin."

That's a weird thing to imagine. Now he's mixing several different memories. He was trying to remember something on Draenor last week, not something on Azeroth six years ago.

_Wait..._

He returned his left hand on her lower back now, pulling her in closer and he closed his eyes and took in the scent of sandalwood emanating from her hair. Her nose was pressed up against the crease where his jawline met the top of his neck, and he shuddered as she inhaled deeply. Except he and Patina hadn't done that. They wouldn't. They were just friends. This is a weird daydream. At night.

"Garot'jin."

He opened his eyes, only to meet Patina's weakly shining silver orbs staring back at him. Except orcs didn't have silver eyes. Night elves did.

Cecilia did.

Khujand's pace slowed as his heart suddenly started pumping even faster, but not the way it had before. He wasn't in Frostfire; he was lost in Gorgrond. This wasn't a tavern; it was a pool of water. The wooden walls quickly morphed into the wooden trees they had likely been cut from and the ceiling disappeared into the night sky. She released his left shoulder and twirled away, her left hand clamped over his right tight enough to pierce the skin with her long, sharp claws. Their arms outstretched, she spun back into him again, placed her right hand on his chest as he wrapped his arms around her and she looked him right in the eye, not even three inches from his face.

"I knew it was you, Groty," she practically breathed onto his mouth.

She shoved him back with the deceptive strength of a Silverwing Sentinel and he felt airheaded. Losing his footing, he slumped down on to the edge of the pool, his legs dangling in the water as he watched a former defender of Ashenvale suddenly pick up the tempo, dancing with skill she hadn't possessed just a minute ago. Her hips curved more and her arm movement was more fluid as though there was an entire band playing around them.

How...how can this happen? Statistically...well, it was possible. He jailed many people. If they were still fighting, they would likely be on Draenor to fight the Iron Horde. Ninety-three people passed through those cells during his tenure. It wasn't outside the realm of possibility that he would bump into one of them now that he was done with his own jail sentence. During the initial push into Tanaan alone, he was recognized by two members of the Horde and one member of the Alliance, and another fellow Horde member called him by his old name a week later.

He tried to justify it in his head logically but he could hear every blood vessel pumping in his entire body, drowning out the sound of his own thoughts.

Cecilia giggled as she swept her hand through the air in front of his face, flashing her pointy fangs at him threateningly.

There was a passion to her moves now. And all Khujand could do was watch, mesmerized by a woman he must have once jailed as she gloated over him, celebrating the revenge she was about to take. All his hope had been built up on starting over again...and now, alone and unknown in a jungle, he was about to die.


	6. We Aren't That Different

The moonlight illuminated the entire clearing, allowing every individual tree to become visible in the background, along with the beaten path next to the boulder Cecilia had originally sat on. Her tower shield was still lying against it and her helmet, glaive, boots and shinguards were on the sand in front. It was a windless night in Gorgrond, and the canopy ringing the clearing held perfectly still. There were very few of the insects which were analogous to the crickets on Azeroth and there were no owls; the air was humid and fresh yet still and silent.

Ripples broke out across the surface of the well as Cecilia danced, slivers of moonlight bouncing off the top. Swirls of sand danced up from the bottom of the three-foot deep well, but the waters still remained clear.

Watching her swift, passionate movements, Khujand almost felt as though he were watching Elune herself grace him with a performance. Whereas her rhythm had been jerky and mechanical before like his own, it was now nothing short of what one would expect from a professional exotic dancer. It was an incredible solo performance, her legs pumping, back arching, head crooked back as she seemed to completely let go of all inhibitions. He remained slumped on the edge of the pool, right where he had fallen into a sitting position after she shoved him.

Was it unfair? The thought flashed through his head now. Lorthiras had negotiated his early release and given him a purpose; the people of Thunder Pass had given him meaningful interpersonal contact. Hell, even this group of mostly Alliance members he had happened upon seemed like decent, open-minded folk. The world was wide open for him. It was as though he had been offered something only to have it taken away; after having accepted the notion of being forgotten in prison and then dying in the wasteland of Desolace, he had finally thought he would get a second chance at life.

Yet deep down inside, he knew that he didn't really deserve it. He should have been executed along with Nokar, Bralag and Lorkus. He was only spared because of corruption in the courts, a highway robber that sort of (not really) resembled him physically and Lorthiras' amazing lawyering skills. Through some bizarre flaw in the judicial system, he was handpicked as somebody for early release to help the Horde on Draenor. The truth was that he was no hero; he was a war criminal who should have died at the gallows and didn't. And now, this woman who was likely one of his own former prisoners when he was the one locking people up would have the revenge he knew she probably deserved.

Rotating, spinning, shaking it like she just didn't care, Cecilia's body pulsated to some sort of natural hum within the core of the planet that could have spoken to anyone no matter what their language. It was incredible, flawless even, and it was his only form of solace in the tragically short moments he knew he would have to mentally and emotionally accept the fact that he was about to die.

She petered out, and with a final, sensuous spin, came to a halt facing right in front of him, her hands up in the air at both sides, her knees bent, her left foot forward and her right foot back on a single line. Slowly, she raised her head and opened her eyes, an almost villainous grin spreading across her face. She held the pose for a moment before she loosened up and approached the slumping troll sitting before her, his downcast eyes moving up to meet her own beaming orbs. As she smiled, her fangs poked out from under her upper lip again. She was clearly enjoying this quite a bit.

He could fight her, Khujand thought to himself. Both of them were a few yards away from their weapons. She was fast but he was strong, and he learned how to box and wrestle quite well in prison. Maybe he could hold her back and hex her into one of the crickets, squash it, and just tell the others that he hadn't seen her...

...no. He couldn't.

Who is he? He's a torturer, a worthless piece of trash who harmed people who couldn't fight back.

Who is she? She was part of an elite fighting force whose only desire was to protect their sacred homeland. He had no right.

Confidently, the victorious former sentinel wearing inauthentic armor strode over toward him, keeping her head up high as she gloated down at him and seemed to savor the moment. Putting both hands on her hips, she shifted her weight to her left leg in an almost childlike fashion as her long, feral eyebrows bounced with the movement.

"Did you like my dance?" she asked innocently.

Khujand's inner voice had abandoned him now, no subconscious there to coach him. For the first time since his release, his mind was clear and quiet. Despite having so little time to prepare, he was ready. He deserved this. She deserved this, whoever she was. If only he hadn't stupidly mentioned his crimes that morning...maybe the changes in his physical appearance would have fooled her.

Whatever. It happened. And now it's over.

As she reared her head back to laugh at his situation, she removed her left hand from her hip and placed it high on her chest. Her demeanor was completely casual, totally unafraid of the hypnotized man sitting before her. It must have been clear to her that he could not or would not (or both) fight back. When she had finished mocking his miserable condition, she peered down at him again as she traced the top rim of her chestpiece near her collar bone with her left thumb and index finger.

"I would be shocked to hear my real name too," she said matter-of-factly, "after so many years of running away. And your appearance has changed a lot more than mine. You must have thought yourself untouchable, unfindable. It's inevitable, though; I can tell you from experience." In front of the others, she was much more subdued and soft-spoken. Now, her features were so animated, her expressions flirty and energetic. She had been hiding this when anyone else was around.

"I have to admit, I was really upset when I heard the news that Garot'jin the Outcast had been executed in Orgrimmar," she continued with a sincerity that scared him. "There were rumors that he escaped, but I never expected to find you again." She cocked her head to the side but kept her eyes on him, as though she were examining him slyly as she spoke. "It makes sense, though. That if you had survived, and I had survived, we would both end up here. It's funny how fate brings people together...and I know you believe in fate."

Khujand continued to look up at her as though he really had been led to the gallows now. As much as he wanted to lunge at her to instigate the confrontation and get his death over with, he knew that it was her right - whoever she was, however he had hurt her - to revel in her catch as much as she wanted. He continued staring up, unable to do anything but wait for the inevitable.

"Well?" she asked as she shrugged expectantly.

For whatever reason, he chose to speak. It was the slow, overburdened tone of a beaten man. "If ya here...ta kill me..." he sighed heavily, not wanting to rush his last words. "...I won't raise a finger ta stop ya."

The next laugh was even deeper and louder than the last. He felt completely exposed in front of her, having spilled the beans to a stranger - to a night elf, no less - thinking he could have been safe. This was some sort of a sick joke to her.

"I'm - I'm not here to kill you, Grot - er, Khujand," she giggled, still not finished laughing it all out. "I'm not even angry at you. I couldn't be, considering the circumstances under which I left Mor'shan."

His heart rate couldn't have been higher and the dizzy feeling returned; everything was happening so fast that he couldn't even analyze what exactly he was feeling that would make his blood rush so fast. "Wha...what? Ya an idiot, then, whoever ya really are," he sighed again, the confusion apparent in his voice. "Ya have no common sense if ya don't hate every bone in my body."

"Hmm...what was it you quoted at the camp, Khujand?" She emphasized his new name as though it was funny to her. "Peace from understanding, and understanding from what?" She leaned her head down as she smirked at him. So...this means he isn't going to die?

"How?" he asked pointedly, his confusion compelling him despite his heart rate catching up with his brain's suspicion that he was going to live. "How can ya not be angry at me?" He was pointing at her with both fingers on both of his hands now, almost scolding her with his questions. "If ya really were a sentinel, how can ya not hate me? Why did ya say ya didn't earlier in front of Irien?"

She rose up again, her right hand still on her hip, her left raised as she stroked her small chin with her index finger. The conversation was slow and plodding, each of them considering what they said for sizeable amounts of time. He began to feel as though the passive aggressive tone he thought he heard earlier was a figment of his imagination. "Would you feel validated if I did?" she asked somewhat snidely. "Would it help you sleep better at night?"

Khujand shook his head. "Whether it does or not ain't important. Ya could only know me if I did somethin' very wrong ta ya, or ta ya friends."

Cecilia felt the side of her face with her left hand, resting in to it. "I was never really angry about what you did to my sister sentinels due to a combination of my personal beliefs - deeply personal beliefs - and the fact that I really don't have any room to judge or blame." Her smile had faded and was only faintly visible at the corners of her mouth, her dull eyes thoughtful and still burning into his. "It's complicated."

He stared back at her without inhibition now, a perplexed look on this face. It was like sitting at Lorthiras' office just over a month ago, too much information that didn't make sense flying his way, that cocktail of positive and negative emotions - mostly negative - swirling around inside with enough velocity to make him feel nauseous.

"You really don't recognize me, do you?" she pouted coquettishly. The animation in her face was as hypnotic to him as her stare.

"I...I'm sorry," Khujand uttered after taking some time to compose himself.

He gulped and licked his lips, searching for what to say. Cecilia seemed to want to talk to him and if she wanted information instead of revenge, he had no right to deny it to her. "I kept a mental register of ya all in my head. Not a night went by when I wouldn't remember one of ya. Remember how sorry I am. Remember how much I hate myself, and hate what I did. And I tried my best to remember ya faces, ya names, remember that ya were living beings like me who were wronged." He grimaced but didn't look away. He'd been stripped down in front of her; there was no need to hide his pain and fear anymore. "But I don't recognize ya. Ya must have changed."

She smiled a bit wider with narrow eyes, leaving him to agonize in silence for a while. If she had wanted to kill him, she should have just killed him. If she wanted to say something profound to him, she should just say it. This waiting game was torture.

Torture. Like what he did to people.

Finally, she leaned down further - almost bending over toward him - and placed her hands on her knees. Her head was almost level with his and there was only a foot or so of space between their faces.

"Come closer."

Following her lead, Khujand did as he was told and inspected her. Try as he might, it just wasn't clicking. Her skin was that deep tone of mauve that he had started to simply adore over the past day. Her hair was an azure color a shade darker than the complexion of his hide. Her roots he had noticed before while they were slow dancing - her natural hair color was a gradually greying indigo. Mauve skin, indigo hair. She was muscular but in a feminine way, still lithe and curvaceous like most women of her kind. Despite her size - taller than even most night elf men and about 300 pounds in weight without armor for sure, and he was quite skilled at guesstimating body weight - her facial features were still delicate. Her eyes were almond shaped and average-size for her kind; nothing was coming to his mind there. The bridge of her nose was not high and not pronounced, and it would have been difficult for him to describe it to someone else - it was not quite round, not quite aquiline. No dimples, no worry lines on her face to identify her by. A small, soft looking chin that seemed inappropriate for a warrior. Her lips were not thin but not excessively full. Aside from the small chin and the long, angular shape of her jaw, her facial features didn't seem particularly familiar to him.

"Do you see it?" she whispered as though it were a secret.

"Not yet, wait."

"Let me help you."

While still bending over to him, she removed her hands from her knees and raised them to her face, running her fingers slowly from her jaw up to her cheekbones. She splayed her index and middle fingers now, covering all but her slightly discolored facial tattoos. Despite the light trembling of her fingers, her cheeks were still easy to see. The tattoos were a violet-blue color, not too much darker than her skin. He remembered noticing that they were two halves of a broken shield, one half on each side of her face. But something was awry. The discoloration wasn't a mistake; part of the tattoo was much older than another part.

"Ya've been tattooed twice in ya life," he whispered back.

"Mm-hhmm."

"Two halves of a broken shield. That's tha recent design."

"Mm-hhmm."

"So tha original design..."

He saw it. Two dark crescent moons on both sides of her face, each one facing away from the other. His eyes grew wide and she knew he had seen them. Although she remained bending over in front of him, she slid her hands down from her face and placed them on her knees again to stabalize herself.

Through the pain, he saw her in the dark. A light shone as two dim eyes penetrated into his soul and he grimaced at the incoherent memory in his brain. There were at least three scenarios he could imagine for what he could recall and the fourth that flashed in front of his eyes terrified him. Her eyes peering at him were suddenly unwelcome and invasive.

"No..." he murmered.

"Yes." Her smile grew so wide that her fangs showed again.

"No..."

"Yes!"

"Ya..._Isurith Swiftfoot_!"

"Mm-hhmm."

"Prisoner number thirteen, legally listed as bein' from an unincorporated grove too small for a name that was later called Serenity."

"Go on." Her grin was ear to ear as she listened to Khujand talk about her.

"Twelve-thousand, one hundred and twenty three years old - well, twelve-thousand, one hundred and thirty years now I guess - veteran of tha War of tha Satyr, tha Third War and tha Battle of Mount Hyjal."

"Yes..." Yes, she was clearly enjoying this.

"Joined tha Silverwing Sentinels after increased hostilities with tha Warsong Outriders. Ya got a blood sister married ta a human guy and they live in Astranaar with their half-elf daughter and ya blood uncle who's a druid, ya got a father who failed druidic trainin guardin' a barrow den somewhere in Nightsong Woods, and a mother who died in tha War of tha Shiftin' Sands. Officially, ya disappeared from our jail."

Jerking her head back so fast that he flinched and raised his arms to protect himself, Cecilia clapped her hands in a wide circular motion and shuffled her feet back and forth as Kaldorei tended to do when applauding.

"You got it!" Her grin faded when she noticed that Khujand went from being shocked to looking like he was in physical pain.

"Oh...my God...ya're Isurith Swiftfoot," he mumbled before looking up at her with a devastated expression on his face. "I...oh no...I am so, so sorry."

Noticing that his chest was heaving, Cecilia sat down to his right on the ledge and put her hand on his shoulder, causing him to bristle from the physical contact which had seemed welcome during their dance. "It's okay, Grot - er, Khujand, I'm not angry at at you."

"No, it's not okay!" he shouted more at himself than at her. His hands were trembling as well. "It's not!"

"Shh! Listen!"

"I can't breathe!" Khujand hunched over and hugged his stomach.

"You _can_ breathe."

"I can't breathe!"

"You never tortured me, Khujand."

"I dragged ya by tha hair inta ya cage!"

"Only once, and then you let me escape."

Total, utter shock filled every inch of Khujand's very being at the unreal suggestion. He was an unholy terror back then, a monster who chose to violate the very basic rights of his prisoners; he had no recollection at all of even walking them gently from the torture chamber back to their cells after performing his morally disgusting duty. He shook his head, the memory of how the elf once known as Isurith had snuck out of the jail still convoluted in his mind. The logic in him wanted to believe it happened the way she claimed it did, but the fear - irrational fear he could not explain - wanted him to believe that it was only a dream.

"That's NOT true," he answered with a little more control in his nonetheless unsure sounding voice.

Cecilia lowered her head in an attempt to establish eye contact again, the look on her face one of confusion. "It is."

"Ya escaped on ya own. Ya braver than me. I just got outta ya way."

She tilted her head to look at him, clearly perplexed yet so casual that she was acting as though they were actually friends. "Okay, I don't know of this is some humble act or if seven and a half years ago is too long for...Khujand, are you being serious now?" she asked with a measure of incredulity. She scooted over even closer to him, giving him such a sincere look of concern that he began to question his own perception.

"I know what happened with the troops - the women and even some of the men - who were shipped out, to Orgrimmar or other war camps. They were trafficked, treated as property and didn't survive long," she explained objectively.

"I didn't have nothin' ta do with that!" he exclaimed defensively, a look of shame on his face nonetheless.

"I know, Khujand; that's the point! Don't you remember what you claimed you saw on that shipment report that morning before I escaped?" she asked in a quiet tone that implied she was trying to remind him of something rather than requesting information she didn't already know herself. "Don't you remember the reason why you said you were helping me?"

Khujand closed his eyes as he tried some breathing exercises Kuma had taught him, slowly straightening himself up. He felt Cecilia rubbing the back of his shoulder, and when he opened his eyes again she was already staring him down. The blankness had left her stare; she almost looked concerned as she furrowed her brow.

"I didn't help anybody; I remember all of my victims. There is no excuse for what I did. Whatever ya think happened, it must've been different from how ya think ya remember. Even if I did help one person, I hurt so many others," he rambled on as his voice wavered, his own hairless brows twitching. She cocked her head back and still appeared unconvinced, but didn't argue with him. Despite his inner voice screaming something inaudible to him, he changed the subject from whatever happened almost eight years ago to why this former prisoner of his wasn't reaching for her glaive to run him through in the present. "How can ya not be mad at me?"

Still appearing incredulous, Cecilia obliged Khujand's push for the change in topic so fast that it aroused suspicion in him. She snorted and held in a small laugh before she started. "Ok, this will take a minute...but if we're going to work together for the next few nights, it's better that you know." His heart rate dropped as he finally accepted the fact that she wasn't hostile toward him. He rubbed his right hand with his left, searcing for the clawmarks from when she had scratched his hand at the end of their slow dance. There was nothing there; had he imagined it?

For a moment, she rubbed her little chin with her right hand as she looked for the words. Breaking eye contact herself now, she arched her head up and looked at the stars as she spoke. "I didn't recognize you at first," she started. "You were just a slightly scary guy who looked lost and pleaded for help. You're Horde, but obviously since we're working with a cartel that requires us to ship mail and parcels everywhere, we got over the whole Alliance-Horde thing a long time ago. You're a lot...erm...beefier than you were back then. Your war paint is gone, your peircings are gone, you have hair and a beard and they chopped your tusks.

"But you're still you. Your voice hasn't changed one bit, especially when you speak Zandali. And once you loosened up and so did we, your body language and mannerisms became the same. You were obviously drugged out back at Warsong, but you were so tired this morning that it was easy to see that look in your eyes. You have those same tired eyes, those sad eyes you showed me the last time we saw each other the moment I escaped, tired from life. It's the same combination of sadness and disappointment with yourself that you had back then, and that I had back then. I'd recognize it anywhere. Takes one to know one, you know?

"I'll be honest, if you had lied about being with Warsong, I would have known you were lying but I wouldn't have connected the dots regarding your identity. But I read people well, especially people like you and me. And I know that everything you said about regretting what you did, even hating the Outriders, is not only true; I've seen it before. It may have been eight years ago, but I saw the same regret, that same pain that we shared almost eight years ago.

"So...I was captured during war, which I can't complain about because I enlisted. The fact that I did worse things than you at Warsong Gulch really doesn't put me in a position to be angry at anybody else, anyway. And while I was there, I realized that the sentinels have committed just as many atrocities; I felt like our suffering wasn't totally undeserved. Then, after I had come to that realization...well, I guess you and I differ over the details."

Cecilia continued looking up at the sky for a moment before inhaling and exhaling deeply. Lowering her head to look Khujand in the eye again, the tension that had filled him was gone. Whether it was some moon magic or that her own comfort from releasing something pent up was simply contagious, the look she gave him helped him to calm down after having bordered on another nervous breakdown just a few moments ago.

"That's why I don't hate you," she said, leaning toward him as though to emphasize her point. "I'm not angry; I don't even dislike you. We're both war criminals guilty as hell, we're both living fake lives and now we have to help each other protect these people from crazy plant monsters for the next few days."

There was a long, drawn out silence, not so much uncomfortable as overwhelming. This was a lot of information to take in, likely for her just as much as for him. She beat him to the punch, throwing out a subject change of her own.

"If we'll be working together for the next few days," she quipped matter-of-factly, "then it would be fair for me to ask how you survived execution. How you ended up with a fake name. How you ended up here. It's nice to know there's somebody else doing the same thing, you know, having sought redemption from what both our sides were doing to the point of changing our appearances and using fraudulent identities. And...regardless of what you've convinced yourself, I actually am glad that you're still alive."

Despite still thinking she was delusional for feeling happy to see him, the fact that she wasn't hostile felt comforting. Confusing, but still comforting. Finally able to calm down enough to shift from panic mode to his normal state of self-loathing, Khujand chose his words carefully. "I'm an awful person who did awful things. Ain't no good ta come, no life lesson ta learn from my story. And ya ain't as bad as me, no way."

"Do you believe in peace?" Cecilia asked with an inquisitiveness he couldn't believe seemed so real.

"I know where ya goin' with this," he answered while shaking his head. "But some people don't deserve it."

"You're wrong." She sounded one-hundred percent sure of herself. "Everybody deserves peace if they are truly sorry for the evil they've done. And you and I have truly both done evil things."

"Ya're wrong," he said without realizing he was mimicking her. "Ya know tha things I did. How can ya sit there and say ya did things as evil as me?"

"Because that's the truth. And if you really are asking about what I did and how I can know I've committed worse acts than you, then that means you really have no idea what I've done, so don't claim otherwise based on ignorance. You don't know how I feel today, even though I know you'd be able to. You're the only type of person who could, just as I'm the only type of person that would understand how you must feel. We're from different sides, but the same breed of criminal."

The familiarity with which she spoke about him seemed out of place. As hazy as his mind was, he could recall observing her in jail, and perhaps doing a little more than just pretending not to notice on the night she disappeared. But surely, he tried to convince himself, she was just projecting her thoughts onto him. Khujand knew he was undeserving of any sort of empathy; nobody could possibly understand the darkness within him. He didn't believe it could be explained.

"Nobody gonna understand tha evil someone like me has done," he sighed as he shook his head at her again and tried to avoid her piercing gaze. "Ya don't really know me, even if ya think ya can. I'm sorry, but I can't believe what ya sayin'."

She grabbed his wrist and held firm; he tried to squirm away as a strange fire shot through his arm that didn't burn him, yet was more intense than how any woman had affected him before. "Then _tell_ me how you feel. Help me understand. And I will help you understand that, no matter what you think, there is still redemption for the remorseful.

"Look, what are the chances that we'd cross paths again? You believe in fate. You said you don't but I know you lied. We're here for a reason. And look, I know, nobody understands war criminals except other war criminals. Even Irien. She listens and doesn't judge, but she will never, ever understand. I've started to move on, but I never had the opportunity to find someone else like us. I've never had the opportunity to truly share. I don't mean for someone to just listen, but also to share."

Khujand looked her over again, and he couldn't hide the sadness in his eyes as all the memories of his guilt and shame came rushing back onto him. As confident as she was, she looked almost as sad now despite having been teasing him only a few minutes ago. The roller coaster was familiar to him, as were her words. He was tired, mentally, and grateful that one of his former charges that had caught up to him wasn't going to kill him on sight even though, he felt, she reserved the right. He realized, then and there, that she was trying to pry his shell open again and he no longer had the energy to fight it, despite the entire conversation feeling futile.

"That don't...I don't know, Cecilia. Thank ya for, um, not killin' me. And I'm happy that ya ain't mad at me. I think ya kinda dumb for thankin' me, but...ah, forget anythin' I say." He scratched behind his ear as he tried to comprehend her insane-sounding request. "I understand maybe ya wanna share stories with someone ya once knew, but I don't see. I don't understand, maybe, how just listenin' ta someone talk is gonna change how ya feel about stuff ya did. It sounds too...I don't know. Maybe I'm just bein' dumb-"

"You said you would have let me kill you," Cecilia urged him as she tugged on his wrist again, stoking the fire as it moved all the way into his spine. "Well, I don't want to kill you, or even shame you for anything you did at Warsong. I want you to understand and share, so give that to me. Even if you don't understand how it can help quite yet, do it because I'm asking you to."

Raising his right hand again, Khujand realized he had just scratched a nonexistent itch and could only fidget so many times to avoid the closeness before he seemed rude. And as his brain fully processed what had transpired, he felt as though he had no right to be rude or even deny her the request. It seemed to be a stupid waste of time to him, but wasting his time and hers was much better than being decapitated with her glaive - which he had already prepared to accept anyway. He dropped his hand down again, though she left it alone this time.

"Alright," he sighed, not wanting to disappoint her. "I don't get it, but I'm gonna do whatever ya ask. Talkin' ain't as bad as gettin' stabbed."

Cecilia finally flashed a warm smile, seemingly happy that he would oblige her request. "Look, if there's anybody that will understand how we feel and why, it's people like us. People who not only committed atrocities but hate themselves for it, and can't stop thinking about their victims. I'm telling you that's what I want from you. I want you to understand. I've started to find my peace, but I want help with that too. And...maybe helping me with mine can help you find yours."

* * *

Maybe he would regret it later, but her words sounded so enticing, so reassuring, and so comforting that he did as she asked. No matter how much Khujand tried to deny it, he knew that the notion of someone else understanding what it felt to hate yourself - with logical justification for doing so - was something he might never have a chance for again.

And so, he told her everything. Told her about how he let Nokar and Bralag sucker him into believing he had assumed a noble position performing 'enhanced interrogation' for the Outriders. About how he had hated his job and hated his life every moment he was awake. And most of all, he hated himself for being too weak to walk away. He told her about his show trial, about his amazing attorney's negotiation to get him a new identity given that he served a sentence of slave labor at a secret prison. He told her about how the images of his screaming victims wouldn't leave his head, yet his daughter's appearance had been cruelly repressed by his memory. He told her of his giving up in prison, his depression, his acceptance of his fate, his nightmares, his fondness bordering on love for his victims when he hoped for their futures and wellbeing, and even of his attempted suicide. He told her of his shock at how rusty his skills had become when he fumbled through the initial assault on the Dark Portal and his amazement that he even survived the Tanaan Jungle. And lastly, he told her of his lingering fear that after the campaign on Draenor was over, the friends he had made would forget him and he would be lost back on Azeroth without a home and without a soul to care for him.

He felt dizzy again after it all, though her words had proven to be prophetic. There was no incredible epiphany, no sudden realization, but there was a serene feeling he hadn't felt since the day his daughter was born. Before he could even describe his feelings during each part of his story, she was already finishing his sentences for him, proving that she knew _exactly_ how he felt about everything. It was difficult for him to say and for her to listen to at some points, yet he held absolutely nothing back and hung on her every word when she made comments.

There was no way of knowing exactly how long they had spoken for, but it was still night; they were to be out there for at least nine hours, so the rest of the camp was still sleeping for sure. All he knew is that they both talked so much that they both felt lightheaded by the time he finished his own story. Breaking almost every rule of personal space in his socially awkward mind, he not only didn't pull away when she patted him on the back at the end but even leaned in to her hand.

"Thank you for telling me," she said, finally breaking the comfortable silence. "I wondered, for many long years, what you would have done with your life after Mor'shan. And when rumors came and went about you escaping the gallows - I guess that wasn't really you, but I thought it was - I still thought sometimes, long after the world forgot about the torture scandal, that maybe you had tried to redeem yourself. Whether you understand it yet or not, seeing now that you have tried to do so, just like I'm trying, helps me feel less alone." Her voice always seemed low naturally, but he could tell that her tone was hushed for her, and for whatever incomprehensible reason, he had somehow warmed Cecilia's heart with his admission of guilt and sorrow. Though he felt shy to tell her, that warmed his heart as well.

She removed her hand from his back, and he felt strangely cold. That wasn't him, he thought; he didn't usually like being touched, yet he felt as though he changed around her. She turned to look him in the eye again, interrupting his train of thought. "Do you feel less hopeless now that you've said it out loud?"

Any awkwardness there had been due to eye contact before had disappeared. Khujand knew that it would most likely not be gone for other people, but at least with her, at least at that moment, he didn't even notice they were making it. "I guess it ain't so bad, now. At this point in time. I got a chance most other people in my situation would never get."

She looked concerned despite the quiet confidence in her voice now. "You're much better off than you thought, Khujand." There was another slight increase in his heart rate at the sound of her saying his name. "Fate has granted mercy on you in some way. I'd like to believe - I'm not really religious now, I left the organized rituals of Elune years ago, but I'm still spiritual - but I'd like to believe that your sorrow over what you did has something to do with that."

For the first time in what must have been hours, Khujand smiled, but there was something eating at him, itching in the back of his mind. As peaceful as the silence was, he couldn't hold back. There was a moment where he opened his mouth and hesitated; Cecilia leaned in quizzically as though to ask him what he wanted to say, only for him to close his mouth when the right words were lost on him. She was an incredible listener, to hear someone else talk about themselves so much and still press on.

"What is it?" Her voice was soft - he wasn't imagining it now. It was comforting just to listen to her speak.

He frowned before starting. "Ya just listened ta me ramblin' on forever. It had to have been borin' for ya."

"No," she said as she shook her head. "I asked you to speak because I wanted to listen. I wanted to hear from someone else who might feel the same. And hearing what you said now confirms that you can understand. That you know what it's like to hate yourself not out of some kneejerk, spoiled self-pity, but because you've done such horrible things. Even to hear that without talking, just to listen to it...I feel like I was right to think I'm not alone." He noticed her tendency to repeat herself with slightly different wording - an odd habit he thought was solely his. They actually did have more in common than he thought.

This time, it was Cecilia who opened her mouth and hesitated; she closed it and swallowed visibly and just stared back, waiting for his reaction. She didn't have to; he truly did want to know.

"If that helped ya..." he started at a snail's pace, "and ya really do think that we the same...then ya can help me, too. Ya say that ya feel better hearin' it, and that ya think I can understand ya. But ya didn't share. Yet. And if I don't ask now, I wouldn't stop thinkin' about it for the rest of my life."

A slight breeze came and went, ruffling their hair and ears before disappearing. Khujand waited for it before continuing. Despite the pained look in her eyes, she smiled at the question. Khujand was aware that the look of curiosity and befuddlement on his face must have been intense; somehow, he felt as though she felt it comforting. How he could explain such a feeling was another of many unexplainable yet undeniable notions that evening.

"Ask me anything."

"Why do ya keep callin' yaself a war criminal, too? I know ya people did wrong as well, but ya were just defendin' ya land." He pursed his lips for a moment before finishing the question. "How can ya claim ta hate yaself like I do? What happened?"

Cecilia broke eye contact and looked away for a moment, thinking about what she would say. What was she thinking, though? The question burned in his mind like it never had before. It was illogical, irrational, and it should feel wrong when it didn't. The more she seemed to ponder the universe, the more he wanted to know what conclusions she drew.

The crickets almost seemed to have quieted down as she waited, as though they had been told that something important was about to be shared. It felt like five minutes that Cecilia sat there, staring at the surface of the spring, trying to draw the inspiration from somewhere. Five minutes would have felt like such a short amount of time in any other context, but it was like an eternity as she merely sat and thought, seeming to prepare what she needed to say.

"Well, I guess it _is_ my turn then," she whispered as she turned back to him mid-sentence. She had gone from giddy and flirtatious at the beginning of the evening to slightly saddened to almost shy now. She didn't avoid eye contact, she didn't furrow her brow as though she was worried about being judged; what was it, then?

"You shared...well, it seems like you shared yourself. It's scary to do that; even if I have a head start on you with the whole new identity thing, you now - as of tonight - have a short head start on actually telling someone else about what you did, and how much it hurts to remember."

She paused again just long enough to take a breath and look up at the stars as she spoke to him softly. "Sharing is what I wanted, so I guess I shouldn't hesitate like this.

"Let me tell you a story..."


	7. Creeping Doubt

_Eight years ago._

With a yank, Isurith extracted her moon glaive from the back of another dead orc peon. Its back flesh make a squishing sound as the deeply embedded blade was pulled out, its putrid blood squirting onto her bare thigh and the leather skirt armoring her midsection. Rising up to her full, magnificent height, she cocked her head to the side as she popped the joint in her neck effortlessly. There was no other place on Azeroth she'd rather be, no other time she'd rather be, than right there and then.

To her right on a slight incline at the base of a tree, Gwynneth stood just as silently and stoicly, her lean figure contrasting with the sharp edges and sturdy surfaces of her armor. Both sentinels had foregone their large shields that night, opting instead for their weapons and their stealth for some excitement that evening. Were it not for the difference in hair color and tattoo design, the two women would have been indistinguishable from each other in their matching gear. Precision and organization was something Silverwing prided themselves in; that, and the fact that they made a living by clearing out the demonic plague known as the Horde from their sacred forests. Not a day went by that Isurith wasn't thankful for the path she had chosen.

Gwynneth descended first, stepping over all the dead orcs as though they were piles of rubbish and taking the lead. Isurith followed her between the trees. It was a great time of year to be outside in Ashenvale; the air was crisp and just a wee bit of fog hung in the moonlight, providing extra cover beyond their natural ability to meld into the shadows. Although the trees in this southern part of Nightsong Forest were quite large in diameter and there were large spaces between them, there were so many that it was impossible to get a clear view of the woods beyond fifty yards or so. This was only half a day's travel from the border with the Barrens, but it was still far enough inside that on three sides, they were surrounded by hundreds of miles of pure, only slightly adulterated virgin forest.

Given the lack of visibility, sound and smell were the primary means of the hunt that night. Gwynneth could have summoned a spirit owl to scout for them, but that was only to be used in times of need; tonight, with just the two large warriors and their weapons, was to be a night of fun and letting off some steam.

As they advanced, the wind brought with it the scent of more of the greenskinned plague. Isurith waggled her long, feral eyebrows.

"Do you smell them, Gwynn?" she asked with more than a hint of desire in her voice.

A silent smirk couldn't be contained on Gwynneth's lips, though she only nodded in affirmation. Following her lead, Isurith stood directly behind, her right hand dipped back ready to fling her spinning glaive at a moment's notice. There was nothing on the planet, fel or fey, that would be quick enough to dodge in time.

Gwynn slowed down and raised her left fist, signalling for Isurith to wait. Creeping forward, the shorter of the two crouched down on the edge of an earthen overlook to spy the activity in the gully below. Isurith waited patiently, trusting in Gwynn's command and knowing that, if there truly were to be some fun to had that night, the younger but more ambitious and higher ranking of the two wouldn't let her miss out.

After two or three minutes, there was more rustling from below. Gwynn raised her left index finger, beckoning for Isurith to approach. Despite all the millenia she had spent in this world, Isurith still took great pleasure in the first visual contact with the kill. It never got old.

Creeping over to the edge, she laid her eyes on the prize: a lone orc lumberjack trying to drag a six-foot-tall felled tree all by itself. It was wearing the typical light brown leather breeches and work boots and sleeveless crimson red tabard with the black trim donned by the killers of trees commissioned by the Warsong Lumber Camp. By the pigtails and bust, Isurith guessed that this orc was what its demonic people would describe as "female," though it felt like an insult to proud women everywhere to grant such a noble title to the green plague. The gully ascended off to the right after about twenty yards, and by the looks of it the orc was tired and would still have a ways to go. There was another new lumber camp functioning as a satellite of Warsong, and it would take this creature at least an hour to haul its butchered victim all the way back to the slaughterhouse the greenskins euphemistically dubbed a "saw mill."

Still melded into the shadows, Gwynn begin by creeping along the edge of the gully, taking care to step quickly yet lightly enough not to crumple any of the gorgeous leaves that blanketed the green carpet of Ashenvale. As slowly as they moved, the orc just couldn't keep up, and they quickly overtook her progress and made it to the end of the gully in the time that the orc had only made it half way up. Sticking to the wall now, they snaked their way back down until they were almost level with the foul creature. The gully was wide, perhaps even five yards wide, and there was plenty of space for an ambush.

Gwynn raised her left fist in that familiar signal again, and Isurith stayed put as her longtime partner moved around to the orc's right. The beast seemed to have expended its energy and had dropped its victim to stand and pant for a moment. Though the two elves were completely undetected by the orc, they could still see each other. With a slow, steady hand, Gwynn reached out for one of the orc's pigtails, motioning from Isurith to the other pigtail with her head. Following suit, the tall sentinel with the dark indigo hair reached as well, her heart pounding with excitement as the moment approached.

"Aaaah!" the orc squeeled as its head was yanked down with a force unlike any it had ever felt. Its back slammed to the ground and the wind was knocked right out of it, its wicked mouth gasping for breath.

Without missing a beat, both elves took turns kicking the creature's ribs like two schoolchildren playing ball, high-pitched screams from the downed tree murderer drowning out their light snickers. Once they were sure the orc was too weakened, winded and frightened to run, they stopped and both kneeled down next to it.

Its knees were curled up toward its chest as it covered the back and sides of its head with both arms, loudly sobbing to itself as though someone would hear and save it from its fate. Too many of these monsters had ripped apart the heritage of all of Azeroth, that which kept the entire world alive, all for their bottomless pit of industrialization. The crocodile tears it wept as it received its just desserts were like a symphony to Isurith's ears; the most notorious, unforgivable scoundrels on Kalimdor were slowly being punished for their crimes against nature.

Isurith couldn't stop all her teeth from showing, her grin was so wide. She didn't care how long Gwynn wanted her to wait before translating; if anything, being able to observe one of these unholy abominations die the slow, painful death of a coward was a treat better than the sharpest wedge of Darnassian bleu.

After a few minutes, the beast's crying tapered off and it splayed the fingers protecting its face to take a look at its attackers. Gwynn finally exited her shadowmeld and revealed herself to the orc and Isurith followed suit. There were no screams, no more cries of pain; only a gasp and a few more quiet whimpers as the pug-nosed monster found its pitiful self too mesmerized to look away from Isurith's gaze. It could only stare in awe as the bilingual greenheaded one (she only knew Darnassian and Common) broke the silence.

"One of our sisters was captured by Warsong last week," Gwynn said in their mother tongue. "I've heard some awful stories about what goes on there." The orc removed its hands from its face, stupidly believing its worthless self to be spared. Gwynn gradually turned her gaze from the orc to Isurith. "Want to have some fun?" Her lip curled up into a mischevious smirk.

"It would be my pleasure, captain," Isurith whispered with a similar smirk as she grabbed the orc's left arm and Gwynn grabbed its right.

"No!" it shouted in its gutteral native language that Isurith, but not Gwynn, understood. "No! Noooo!" It shut its eyes tight as it was pulled to its feet, its weakened arms no longer able to put up a strong fight.

The two elves flung it against the earthen wall of the gully, Isurith's adrenaline pumping as the orc's back slammed into the soil with a thud. The wind was knocked out of it a second time and it collapsed into a heap in front of them, not even attempting to get up. This was almost too good, she thought to herself. All alone, already tired...it was like a live, demonic punching bag.

"Just soften her up for now," Gwynn chuckled. "We might be able to use her to scare the others."

Isurith grabbed a pigtail in each hand now, taking joy in the fact that the monster's hairstyle had provided her with two convenient handles. It screeched in a weak, rasping voice as it rose again, grabbing the bases of its own pigtails but careful not to come into contact with Isurith's hands. The sentinel was more than a foot and a half taller than the orc, and was easily able to swing it around, causing it to lose its footing and then dragging it around in a small circle as Gwynn laughed with one hand over her mouth. The orc didn't kick but it did start sobbing again, much to the delight of the two Kaldorei.

"Stop! Stop! Please just stop! I have a family!" Its cries were strangely intelligible despite the fear in its wide, bulging eyes.

Isurith lifted the orc off its feet and slammed it to the ground again; this time, it was spent and couldn't even cover its face after hitting the ground.

"What's it - what's it saying?" Gwynn practically cackled now, her face an even darker shade of purple from the laughter.

Isurith kneeled down next to the pitiful heap, interested in what she had just heard. "It says that it has a family!" Though still kneeling, she glanced up at her partner. "I thought these things spawn from hellfire? Do they...reproduce?"

Gwynn folded her hands across her chest, curiosity apparent in her face. "Ask it; this might be good."

Isurith gave the orc a quick slap to the back of the neck, her brows furrowed as she sought to clarify the bizarre statement she had just heard. "Hey," she shouted at it in Orcish. The creature looked up, seemingly unsurprised that an elf would know its language.

"Repeat what you just said."

Catching its breath, a measure of fear seemed to dissipate from the orc's face as the muscles in its face loosened up somewhat and it rolled over to its back. Hands shivering with fear, it reached into a pocket on the inside of its tabard and pulled out a wooden trinket on a string. Raising its arm but with its elbows tucked in to its ribs defensively, the orc offered the trinket to Isurith. She grabbed the orc's fingers, ensuring that she twisted them as she snatched the trinket away, eliciting a pained yelp from its vile mouth. It shook its hurt fingers and then clasped both hands to its chest, staring up at Isurith with big, pathetic looking eyes in an obvious attempt to garner some sympathy.

Isurith held the trinket close, eyeing the poor craftsmanship with incredulity. It appeared to be a crude carving of two parents and two children. She rested her wrist on her knee and glanced back down at the quivering orc.

"Where did you get this, mongrel?"

The orc gulped visibly before speaking. "M-my husband made it for me. It's so I always remember why I work, and who I have waiting for me." More tears flowed now, though the beast controlled the tone of its voice. "I just want to go back to my children, I won't ever come here again! I swear!"

"What the hell is it saying?" demanded Gwynn impatiently.

It was a stupid notion to have, it was contradictory to what Isurith believed in, but for whatever reason the trinket-bearing orc seemed so pitiful that she felt - at least as pure entertainment value - that the cretin was no harm if left alive.

"It's saying this is some sign of surrender it was to deliver from the main lumber camp to the satellite camp out here," Isurith lied through her teeth. "They're supposed to be ceasing their disgusting operations soon." Though she wasn't a particularly skilled actor, she knew that Gwynn trusted her enough not to question.

The greenheaded sentinel looked pensive for a moment. "I called the last four kills, actually," she said magnanimously. "This one's yours."

Isurith was focused on the two children carved into the trinket, wondering how creatures possessed by fel corruption would need to breed. Still, her curiosity about the world had been awakened within a year and some months of the end of the Long Vigil and the loss of the Kaldorei's isolation. She looked up at the captain, feeling in a more merciful mood now.

"Let's just beat her a few more times and send her on her way. I'll pin her arms."

* * *

The air was crisp in the southernmost regions of Nightsong Forest that morning, as it was during that beautiful time of year. Isurith was alone this time, the itch for a patrol gnawing at her at a time when the rest of her sister sentinels were either sleeping or chatting quietly around the fire. Only a few brave guards were needed to patrol the actual Silverwing Refuge that time of day, the Horde knowing that the sentinels would all be in one spot like a tidal wave and ready to armor up and roll out at a minute's notice. Night was always a better time for their enemies as the sentinels would be more spread out, yet it was also better for the sentinels in a way as they were more at home that time of day. No matter when, the oldest and most experienced warriors on Azeroth would be ready for a fight.

Shadowmelding was not possible during the day, but the natural sounds of the forest wildlife provided enough audial cover such that Isurith could run and leap freely without concern for being heard. Though she had not been in that part of Ashenvale for long, she had slowly started to learn the names of each individual tree, hill and river bend from the local elves. She could not wake up at any moonrise without professing her love for having been born Kaldorei, being from a people with such lofty and noble ideals.

The gully where she and Gwynn had found that orc peon a few weeks prior had become a regular patrol route now. Isurith had allowed the creature to leave, and while it seemed quite stupid and harmless she still found her mind drifting to what it had said.

That the orcs did breed and reproduce hadn't been a huge shock; unlike the demons of Felfire Hill, the greenskins seemed capable of spontaneous, unplanned speech and the sort of irrational behavior typical of the younger races. The thought of them caring for their young like furbolgs or quillboar, however, was a strange concept to her. Their concern for burying their dead made more sense - a lot of their behavior made more sense - but it was still new for her.

In what Isurith would remember as one of the most random ironies of her life, she happened to be perched about a dozen feet up in the branches of a medium Ashenvale purplewood when she heard the whistling of a familiar squeaky voice. She turned knowingly, almost ready to smack her forehead when she saw the silloheutted figure with two pigtails emerging from the morning fog about ten yards from the mouth of the gully.

"You have GOT to be kidding me," she murmured to herself from her perch. It was the SAME orc, wearing the SAME outfit, carrying...its lunch?

Its lips puckered as it whistled far too loudly for an unarmed civilian in the woods; the creature appeared completely oblivious to the danger it was in as it wandered into the same gully where it had been attacked. Even more bizarre was the fact that it was strolling with a fruit basket clasped with both hands in front of its waist, as though it were hopping along for some sort of merry picnic.

"Where do you think you're going?" Isurith asked rhetorically in a hushed voice as she crawled back toward the trunk and slinked down to the forest floor below. The peon was so utterly lost in what Isurith now knew must be conscious thought that it didn't even see the towering night elf off to the side.

There was mercy last time, she thought. Maybe this thing needs a little tough love. It isn't a soldier and isn't wielding one of those tree-murdering axes, but it was still trespassing. The orc jumped as it heard the voice of an elf speaking its language behind it.

"You're not supposed to be here," Isurith hissed only three yards behind the orc's back, blocking its exit from the gully. What happened next actually was a huge shock.

Its initial terror was quickly replaced with a shit-eating yet sincere grin as the orc swiveled around to face her.

"Why hello there!" it said as it waved one hand with far too much of a swinging motion. "I've been looking for you for weeks misses elf queen!"

Isurith had seen a lot of weird stuff in her twelve-thousand years guarding Ashenvale during the Long Vigil. That infernal that kept walking in the same ten foot wide circle nonstop for a twenty year period...yeah. Lots of weird stuff. This, however, left her dumbstruck and searching for answers in her head as she just blinked and tried to remember if she had been drinking again the previous night.

"What do you think you're doing?" she barked at the orc, somewhat angered by the fact that it was approaching her without a hint of nervousness.

The orc swung the fruit basket up to the armored warrior standing before it, its apparent mental illness undaunted when the warrior made no attempt to accept it. "Thank you so much for not killing me!" it beamed with a sincerity to those borderline insane words that actually made Isurith become the nervous one. "So many of us got killed by other elves, but you let me go! You didn't even hit in the face like our supervisor does. I knew when you looked in my eye you were friendly." Its eyes grew wide and its mouth opened into an O as though it had remembered some extremely significant detail. As though that were even possible. "I'm Olsa, by the way. Oh, look!"

It swung the basket up again, still undaunted by the lack of response. "We saved up for a week and a half for the fresh fruit. Life is so expensive for us out here, but my husband wove the basket. He weaves baskets!" Looking quickly to the left and the right despite the fact that the gully was walled by packed earth and there couldn't possible be anything there, the orc stepped forward with one foot and placed the basket at Isurith's feet as though it was solid gold.

"We only get to eat fresh fruit on the holidays, but I told my husband about how you decided to let me go and we wanted to show our gratitude." The orc was still smiling, its tone was still cheery and Isurith was still too flabbergasted to even move.

"Well, I have to get back to work now. The trash at our camp doesn't collect itself, and today is my turn!" It peered to the emptiness behind Isurith. "Could I go now, if that's alright with you?"

Isurith stared at the orc for a long time as she began to worry that she had been hexed. It was easier to just step aside and let the orc scramble out of her sight than to interrogate it right there in the gully. It galloped off with its uneven gait, not looking back as it made its way back to the known location of the Horde satellite camp.

"Gratitude?" Isurith asked herself rhetorically. Orcs did not possess a level of thought sufficient for such concepts, she thought to herself. Not trusting what she had just seen, she began stalking the creature with the intention of seeing what sort of dark rituals they were performing at the camp that could cause such civilized behavior in the green plague.

* * *

Isurith's crawling speed was about as fast as the orc's running speed and it wasn't hard to keep the pace while low to the ground all the way to the lumber camp. It was an infuriating sight - nine wooden hovels roofed with tree branches and an outpost for the evil, demonic grunts that were posted there at any given time. Aside from the three armed guards at the outpost, there seemed to be about another fifty orcs occupying the place, all civilians. The camp had been conveniently set up in a clearing that received some amount of sunlight, causing difficulty when Isurith tried to make out the details of the scene. Squatting down behind a rock and shielding her eyes with her left hand, she was able to get a better look.

To refer to the orc's living quarters as squalid would be an understatement. There were piles of garbage and refuse everywhere, the peons having dug small ditches for their waste disposal before burning the piles. The huts were uneven and without so much as a dirt path, the leaves on the ground covering the grass and soil completely. Most of the huts only had hung carpets for doors and the occupants of the single-room structures could be easily seen from Isurith's vantage point.

Scanning for activity, most of the peons seemed to be relaxing for the moment rather than defiling the forest as she thought they always did. Their clothing was tattered and dirty and she saw no facilities for laundry; a few waterskins were lying around, though the nearest stream was more than a mile away.

"Tag! You're it!" called out a group of small orcs...well, they must be children, right? The orcs do breed.

The small group of squealing greenskins didn't have very much space to play in, weaving in and out and between the nine huts as they chased each other. Most of them were barefoot and a few shirtless. The men in Isurith's own culture often went out that way - she didn't prefer footwear herself when off duty - but that was out of choice. Without laundry facilities, she assumed that there simply wasn't enough clothing to go around.

The entire way of life reminded her of the ignorant misery she observed of many of the other races of this new Alliance the night elves were a part of. Isurith had strongly opposed her people's membership in the Alliance from the beginning, and only begrudgingly accepted when High Priestess Tyrande made the call. What she had seen of humans she didn't like - they weren't demonic and many were agreeable enough on a personal level, but their way of life was barbaric and without sophistication. They knew not of the love one would feel being a part of nature, living with it rather than off it.

What she saw now was a whole new level of disconnection, poverty and destitution, however. There were no wisps to collect raw materials and construct facilities like the night elves had. The humans and dwarves didn't have that either, but they had wealth that allowed them to fund the collection of such things. The orcs seemed to be in a situation of complete material lack.

There were no naturally growing structures like the night elves had. Again, the humans and dwarves didn't have that either, but they had technological know-how and (again) the wealth to build great structures. A few of the adult orcs she saw here were patching up their thatched roofs by hand, the sort of tedious manual labor her people had only thought of as cruel jokes made about the trolls and centaur. Even the quillboar had thornweavers who could grow their wicked structures for them.

"Mama!" an orc toddler cried near one of the huts at the far end of the camp near Isurith's vantage point. She peered over at the voice, seeing the same pigtailed orc which called itself Olsa. Well, even a felhunter has a name...were these Olsa's...children? It was a disconcerting thought which almost seemed unreal.

"I'm home!" that familiar voice beamed as Olsa leaned down to pick up its...her(?)...two year old. An older child sat with its back against the wall of the hut while drawing elaborate pictures in the dirt with a stick, completely enraptured by its own activity. The toddler's cheeks were round and chubby like a green gnome, its bulbous forehead rubbing against Olsa's cheek.

Isurith wanted to feel contempt for the spawn she witnessed. These things were only breeding more foul creatures to defile all that the Kaldorei held sacred. She tried to force the feeling out of the pit of her stomach. It must be there. Yet the harder she tried, the further away that feeling seemed.

Pushing such thoughts out of her head, Isurith peered in again and spotted what must be the basket weaving husband mentioned earlier. He was seated on a chair inside the one-room hut with its front flap open, only the front half of his body visible through the door. Sure enough, he was weaving a basket on his lap as he looked at Olsa...well...his eyes were wide and his brown was arched as he flashed his wife a mushy smile.

He? She? These should be its. Isurith should be angered to see them reproducing and continuing the curse. She certainly still wanted them out, but her heart rate was normal. Her pulse was normal. For the first time in her life, she felt as though she didn't quite understand her own self.

As the husband leaned forward to hug both wife and toddler, Isurith spied his left thigh; the rest of his leg had been amputated at the knee. No wonder he weaved baskets; it was likely all he could do.

Creeping back from her vantage point now, Isurith shoved all her introspection away and ignored the questions of how and why. If she couldn't force herself to feel angry, then she would force herself to just focus on something else. Just return to the cold, unfeeling warrior she was and put the morning foray out of her mind.

Speeding off once she had snuck out of earshot of the camp, it wasn't long before Isurith was able to reach the Refuge and retire to her bunk hungry that morning. She pretended that she didn't remember the fruit basket she had abandoned at the gully, but she did.

* * *

The light somehow poked through the white linens of her bunk that morning, her restricted breathing being a fair trade for the added shade. Isurith's head throbbed, the drinking game she had engaged in with some of her fellow bored sister sentinels making its aftereffect felt. There wasn't much to do at the Refuge on those days one was assigned to guarding the actual structure itself, and the glaive throwers could only be polished so many times before the behavior felt manic.

It had to have been at least eight in the morning by now, and at this rate she was going to be up all day. Her eyes still closed, she pouted to herself at the thought of having to be awake again in only seven hours. She tried forcing herself to count furbolg cubs jumping over a stream, but that only made her feel even more awake. Sliding her head underneath her pillow, she tried to drown out the sounds the day-shift sisters were making. This wasn't like them; what happened to common courtesy?

There was suddenly hooting and hollering followed by approaching footsteps.

No, no, no, she thought. Whatever it is can wait. It can't be humorous enough to warrant waking the rest of them.

Gwynneth's heavy, unstealthy footsteps woke all four of the sleeping sisters in Isurith's wing. "Ladies, wake up!" she urged without reaching the level of shouting. "There's a spy outside! We caught it! There might be a summary execution!"

Thoughts of sleep fading, Isurith leapt out of bed along with two other sisters, only throwing on a pair of faded green drawstring pants and a white T-shirt as she raced outside for the view.

"Spies," she grumbled to Gwynneth who was bouncing on her toes with excitement. "Let's hope this one lives long enough to provide some entertainment."

Gwynneth nodded and adjusted her forest green ponytail as the two tallest sentinels at the refuge jogged side by side, rounding a corner while holding on to the wooden railings of the barracks veranda to avoid bumping into the two other sentinels jogging in the middle. The cold ceramic tiles laid into the stone foundation felt chilly on her bare feet, helping to wake Isurith up for the show. If she wasn't going to be able to sleep, at least she would see the plot of another Horde agent foiled.

They had lost three sentinels and a human sorceress on loan from Stormwind during the past week to Warsong kidnappings and the show this morning would likely allow the sisters to blow off some steam.

Down the hall, a sight that would normally have caused most of the women to pause was almost not seen. Standing tall - the only person at the Refuge as tall as Isurith and Gwynneth - was Sodor Bowleaf, the resident feral druid and one of only two men stationed at the Refuge that week. He stood in his feral robes of animal furs and naturally grown vegetative protection, the flecks of shiny silver in his chest-length, blue-black beard reflecting some of the sunlight filtering in to the covered walkway. He appeared perfectly awake, running his index finger along his shaven upper lip as the group of women warriors whizzed by.

"Another spy?" he asked in his calm yet tired droll. His eyes were awake, but according to recent gossip - the less numerous menfolk slept on a separate, more isolated branch of the refuge and were mostly kept separate - he had grown quite weary of the Horde's relentless crimes against nature. The light-violet-skinned druid viewed the orcs with a contempt unusual for those of his noble class, reportedly often grumbling about how he "had had it" with the green plague.

Isurith watched as the feral druid rand a hand through his shoulder length hair, taking care not to disturb his long, proud antlers - rare for a druid of feral specialty - but didn't answer. She still wasn't used to being around unrelated men, and besides - Sodor was a marked man, technically single but very much taken.

"Another spy!" Gwynneth chirped happily as they left the man standing back in the covered hall, shaking his head.

They rounded another corner and descended the naturally grown wooden steps leading into the practice yard, with spears, halberds and glaives lining the inner wall of the veranda as a group of ten other sentinels huddled in a circle. Being a part of the day shift, they were all armored with the exception of their heads; there was no need for helmets while inside the refuge walls. There was a combination of laughs and snarls as a bound and gagged figure in the middle was poked and prodded. Maya Ironwood, their commanding officer, was there, holding the sisters back from unleashing on whatever infiltrator had been idiotic enough to think he could come anywhere near Silverwing Refuge with anything less than a battalion.

"The great thing about spies is that you never feel bad for them," Gwynneth hummed in that voice of hers that was far too high-pitched for her great height.

"Alright, alright, we can't ALL do the honors," Maya said in a raised voice at the gregarious sentinels all vying for the opportunity.

Gwynneth had already rushed forward to join the crowd. "So we don't need to file a report or anything?"

The captain waved her hand. "Nah, too much paperwork. The spy didn't escape to leak any information, so we can just nail the body to a tree with the dead grunts and say it was a rogue."

There were some chuckles mixed in with the approving nods and "mhms" as the crowd of twelve settled down. Isurith and a new transfer from Darkshore whom she didn't know well hung back, wanting to get a better view of the action.

It was only when the group separated and those two pigtails became visible that the first tinge of raw negative emotion broke through so strongly that Isurith couldn't deny it, at least not at that moment.

Hands and legs bound behind her, Olsa had been propped up into a kneeling position as she trembled violently. She protested surprisingly little, her wide eyes darting around at the different elven faces around her. She had been gagged, though there were smudges of blood on the piece of cloth that appeared unrelated to the now bleeding welt above her right eye. She almost appeared too afraid to resist.

Isurith's heart sank, despite her pretending that she had no heart. Before the thoughts of the behavior she had witnessed from Olsa at the camp could rush in and push her to do something stupid in front of her sister sentinels, she tried to flip that switch inside of her soul and prevent herself from feeling before she could even start. This thing was the enemy. It had to be. There was no other way she could view this.

"Since a whole group of you were responsible for this catch of the day," Maya hummed harmoniously as she twirled a shining silver sword in her hand like a toy, "we're going to have a raffle for who gets to do the honors."

The new transfer to Isurith's right smiled eagerly as her eyes got wide, shining the same shade as Maya's sword. Suddenly, however, all eyes were on Isurith herself; she was standing in a trance, unsure of why she had become the center of attention.

Quivering in the middle of the crowd, Olsa's eyes had become pleading, arching at Isurith as she finally started whimpering something in Orcish through the gag. It was clear that she was trying to communicate, likely trying to remind the warrior of her gratitude and the thanks she had tried to give.

One could hear a pin drop in the practice yard now, the stillness itself overwhelming anything else in the air. Maya's eyes narrowed.

"Isurith, this is the monster that told you they were supposed to be ceasing operations at the satellite camp," the Gwynneth asked, though her intonation didn't raise at the end. "Isn't it?"

Tucking her chin far down to her chest to hide her own gulping now, Isurith waiting just a few brief seconds before answering. "It is."

Darkness spread across Gwynn's face as she grinned angrily at Isurith in so subtle a manner than the rest of the sisters would have sensed only glee.

Captain Ironwood flipped the sword's hilt in her hands until the blade was pointing to the ground. Taking a few steps forward and then stopping dramatically, she held her sword out to Isurith and posed, flicking her head to send her navy blue ponytail waving behind her back as though she was showing off for someone. Hollers and cat calls erupted as Sodor walked over to the veranda and leaned over with his elbows on the rail. The only other man at the Refuge that week was a male warrior who had never passed druidic trials - perhaps one out of ten night elf men couldn't pass and were relegated to positions of less prestige with no hope for advancement. Sodor only had eyes for one woman; though Captain Ironwood had been married once and even had children successful in their own right, her husband died along with nearly half the male population during the War of the Ancients. With the return of fertility that came along with the loss of immortality, she was back on the market. As the highest ranking officer at the Refuge, her very alpha-female-ish behavior clarified to everyone on more than one occasion that the feral druid was off limits. Regardless, the presence of a desirable, still legally unmarried male excited the sentinels even further despite Captain Ironwood literally standing right there, and they began pushing and shoving as they glared menacingly at Olsa and threw pretend punches and scratches inches from the mortified orc's face.

Isurith's arms froze at her sides, her shoulders and upper back tense as she helplessly wished for the earth to open up and swallow her right there. There were inaudible whispers for only a few seconds before Captain Ironwood began clapping her hands in a wide circular motion, her smile so wide that her teeth showed in a legitimate, non-envious show of appreciation for her comrade in arms. The newer transfers clapped lightly as well and a few even reached out and rubbed the back of Isurith's shoulders excitedly as she lurched forward and accepted the Captain's sword.

The look in Olsa's eyes bore a sense of hurt and betrayal that Isurith had not seen in her entire twelve-thousand years of being. It made her heart feel cold and bleak in a way that reminded her that no matter how old she grew, she was not the unfeeling automaton she lied to herself about being. The destruction of a gratitude and trust that was so innocent and sincere sliced into Isurith today the same as it would were she only twelve-hundred or even only one hundred and twenty years old. None of it made any difference now as the tears flowed from the orc's big, wide eyes, pure eyes that Isurith finally saw held behind it all the same senses of love, fear, joy, sadness and the range of other emotions experienced by non-demonic beings.

"Wow, she's waiting for it," mumbled one of the sisters in a voice so low that Isurith couldn't even tell who it was. "It's like she's waiting for her adrenaline to peak!"

"I've never seen a summary execution before, I can't stand the suspense!"

"Don't blink, you'll miss it!"

"Good riddance."

"Hey what's for breakfast this moonrise?"

Sharp, claw-like fingernails dug into the upper part of Isurith's sword arm as Gwynn rotated around behind her, placing her lips and tongue less than half an inch from Isurith's ear.

"Do not...do not...do NOT give anyone cause to ask questions."

Gwynn released her grip, patting Isurith on the back of her shoulder lightly as she folded her arms and flashed an approving look to the group in front of Isurith now.

Olsa never gave up. Up to her very last moment on Azeroth, she didn't lose hope. Her pitiful sobs and muffled cries were all directed up at the only elf she thought had a heart, the strong woman she saw as a kindred spirit, however naive that may have been. Her big, wide whites remained fixed onto Isurith's bright, burning silvers in a gaze that the warrior knew would stay with her forever.

* * *

The children had already gone to sleep that night, though the adults of the satellite camp were all seated on the leafy forest floor, forming a circle around their despondent friend. The handicapped father of two was the only one seated, his single foot tapping on the ground nervously as the others prayed around him. There wasn't enough flint to go around given their inability to generate enough lumber as a camp to waste food money on non-essential items, and only a single fire was lit by which to see.

Slowly, one of the grunts became visible among the trees in the distance, his worn, rusted armor betrayed his harrowed, frazzled nerves. He approached the camp cautiously, turning his head all around to see if he had been followed. He paused briefly once he was only ten yards away from the circle of friends, staring at them with an unreadable expression.

Nobody rose to greet him, yet everybody turned to see him. After what seemed like an eternity, he solemly strode over to the handicapped father whose fists were balled on his knees and whose eyes were already shut. The grunt placed a hand on the bereaved husband's shoulder as he kneeled down next to the chair, whispering something inaudible. Several of the seated orcs began pulling at their own hair and silently beating their fists into the ground as the new widower sobbed uncontrollably into his raised fists, now faced only with the task of figuring out what to tell his two children that there family had been reduced to only the three of them.

In the distance, a tall armored sentinel pulled the real reason the supposed 'spy' had approached the Refuge from her belt pouch. Inside a gift wrapping of colored paper lied a newly carved wooden trinket. The features of the tall, carved figure were elven, a moon glaive attached to one arm and a fruit basket held in the other.

Wanting to shut off her feelings until she was cold and hollow like during the Vigil, the night elf sentinel ran off into the woods, wishing to run until her knees gave out, to run until her toenails fell off, to run until the throbbing in her legs would numb her from everything else.


	8. Bad Homecoming

There were so many gruesome details; Olsa had been just one in a list of fifty seven civilian victims. The naive yet kind orc mother hadn't been the first, nor had she been the last, unfortunately. She was, however, the person who initially opened Cecilia's eyes to the reality of what her side was doing with their intentional targeting of the lumberjacks rather than the soldiers. Cecilia described what she referred to as the brainwashing of the proud, noble sentinels in such an extreme way that Khujand felt like she must have been exaggerating due to her shock, yet he could feel that she was not the exaggerating type.

There were no tears, but it was obvious to him just how much she had wanted the opportunity to talk about her victims out loud. It was difficult for her to say, it was painful for them both to hear out loud, but he listened, finally understanding what Cecilia had meant when putting herself down before.

When it was all said and done, and her tales of the suffering she had inflicted upon the weak were finished, the two former "heroes" of Warsong Gulch spent a long period in paralysis, both of them in a sort of system shock at the intensity of not simply confessing to their crimes but, for the first time, actually sharing with someone who had been down that road. Just as Cecilia had done during his story, Khujand had proven to Cecilia and himself what she claimed he would before: that he could finish her sentences about what she was feeling, what she had experienced in her heart the whole time. He didn't give unsolicited advice. He didn't whisper worthless compliments for her honesty. He didn't dole out patronizing denials of the extent of the evil she had committed. All he did was all she wanted, all he wanted, all either of them needed: to show that someone else experienced the same, and felt the same; that someone understood the self-hatred and wished so much to redeem themselves.

There was silence by the time she finished, though it wasn't awkward, and Khujand experienced no difficulty in rekindling the conversation once she caught her breath.

"Ya defended tha World Tree heroically for thousands of years...but I understand how, despite tha numerical imbalance, even one innocent drop of blood shed on ya blade would sully it for ya. Not for ya friends and family, but in ya eyes," he said as he looked down at his lap. Neither of them would have reverted to their normal discomfort with eye contact, he thought, though they both felt almost physically tired from all the heart wringing.

"Yeah..." she breathed out in a hushed tone. "People might say that fifty-seven murders doesn't outweigh ten thousand years of duty." She pursed her lips in disapproval as she stared into nothing, shaking her head. "And those are people who don't know what it's like. I just..." Her voice trailed off as though she couldn't find the words.

"Ya lost all tha glory ya felt ya had earned, and by ya own hand," Khujand answered. "Negative one times a positive hundred still ends up bein' negative." Cecilia laughed with a combination of regret, loathing and, somehow, relief in her voice. Though he couldn't explain how he knew, Khujand was sure the muscles in the back of her neck loosened up in response to his comment.

"I wasn't...pushin' ya too hard ta say things ya didn't want ta say, was I?" He arched his hairless brows, still shy to ask the question.

Cecilia smiled now, though the rest of her face remained still; that the conflict within her had subsided after opening up was evident.

"You can ask me anything," she said in that husky voice of hers, her face softening a bit at the question. "I told you I want to share. Even if some details are difficult, having them finally understood brings me a joy greater than the sorrow of remembering."

He licked his lips, still waiting for permission first. She lightened up and chuckled a little, play hitting the back of his shoulder as he fought off the sensation of blood rushing to his ears by staring at the ground for a moment. "Ask or share, soldier; the night is still young!" she practically laughed.

"I take it that ya...erm...partner Gwynneth ain't like us," he said inquiringly, looking back up after the wave had passed.

"Not even close. She's a true sociopath. She might have committed similar atrocities to yours and mine, but she never regretted a thing." Cecilia's face hardened as years of resentment pushed their way to the surface. "She is _nothing_ like us. At least Captain Ironwood began to change after you interrogated her."

Cecilia paused when she saw Khujand frowning in shame; he had drowned Captain Ironwood back when he was their jailer, accidentally caused her death during the torture and partially traumatized her when he brought her back to life with his resurrection spell. The same regret and loathing he heard in Cecilia's voice just a moment before escaped through his sigh. "Look, part of moving on is accepting that having done evil deeds doesn't mean you're still evil in the present," she explained with a consoling squeeze to his arm. "And if it _did_ mean that, that you're still evil now for what you did before feeling remorse, then Maya would be worse off than you, just like I would. She already started to accept the reality of our crimes against nature around the time you let me go."

"Around tha time ya snuck out," Khujand added quickly as though he were correcting her. His carefully constructed worldview based around denying the possibility of his having shown any sort of mercy still caused him to block out as much of the memory as he could.

"Agree to disagree," she commanded as she held the tip of her index finger toward the sky. They both snorted and relaxed, and he marveled at a lack of awkwardness he couldn't remember having experienced in years.

Even more walls were torn down by her demeanor, and he hesitated even less before pressing her again. He wasn't only comfortable around her; he felt so comfortable that he didn't even bother overanalyzing every detail, and simply felt without thinking.

"What happened after ya got out?" he asked cautiously, still shy about pushing her to share details he knew would be painful.

"I'm glad you asked despite that lingering hesitation in your voice," she said pointedly. "Once I was on the outside, I ran like hell. I had to loop my way around the main road to avoid being seen and some of our outrunners found me halfway to the Refuge. They expected me to collapse and need to be carried, but I was calm and able to ride on the back one of the sisters' sabres sitting up."

Khujand stroked his short beard with his hand absentmindedly. "Ya heart was calm cause ya got a lot of introspection done in that month that ya spent in captivity, right? Like an amount of deep thinkin' disproportionate ta tha short time ya stayed in jail?"

Her eyes lit up as if reacting to his ability to understand what had gone through her mind without even trying. "I had more productive conscious thought during that month than all the millennia of the Long Vigil."

"Which, if it's alright with ya...I mean, I guess it ain't related ta recoverin' from what we did at Warsong," he mumbled sheepishly. "But I would feel honored if ya told me about tha Vigil, too. I've always been mortal...ya been both, and ya immortal period is fascinatin' ta tha rest of us."

"Cross my heart," she chortled, mimicking the hand motion she had observed from human children. "But it's not what you think. Most Kaldorei were mindless during that time, and we're neither as wise nor as experienced as everyone else thinks. We did the same stuff day in and day out until all the days melded together. After immortality, now _that's_ what influenced the personalities of many of us even more." Cecilia had started to look up at the stars again, and Khujand followed suit. There appeared to be a thousand thoughts swirling around in her head - every one of them stories he'd want to hear some time. For now, he was ready and eager to hear her as she continued the story of where she went after Warsong. "I wasn't at the Refuge for long. Just long enough to be humiliated, and by people who I shouldn't have cared about anyway."

He scratched his head, and she seemed to understand the indication that her last comment lacked any context at all. She flashed her little fangs at him again, seeming to revel in causing him to be confused.

"It all came to a head when I decided to run away from my sister's home - most of us tend to live with family members even into adulthood." Cecilia sat up straight and turned to face him all the way as they sat cross-legged in the sand on the edge of the wellspring. "This one's a bit shorter."

* * *

_Seven years and three months ago._

Unelia took her time dusting off the violet-red bookshelf, taking care to avoid inhaling any of the particles as she cleaned. She was quite particular about dust particles in their den; that the far left edge of the bookshelf was right above the kitchen counter only created more work for the sudden homebody.

Isurith was curled into the fetal position on the padded sitting circle in the center of the den of her sister's home - a naturally grown hollowed out tree - partially wrapped up in the white linens used to cover the pillowy surface of the circle. It had been hours since she had first plopped herself down there, still stubbornly resisting her sister's pleas yet too attached to leave her side during the night. The wispy, naturally glowing lightstone floating over a dish of normal stone illuminated the entire den from its position against the wall behind Isurith's head. Johan and Elindir had taken Corrianna out during most of the twilight hours when Isurith was like this, giving the two sisters the space they needed during what was arguably their second greatest trial since their emotional awakenings.

* * *

"Emotional awakenin'?" Khujand asked.

"Eh...it's about how immortality kind of sucked."

"Wha...seriously? I always thought-"

"No, wait, it didn't quite suck, that's Irien's influence talking. Focus, alright? I'll wax philosophical later, I promise."

* * *

"You're not even listening to me right now, are you," Unelia scolded as she tried to feign a judgmental tone. Despite being the runt of their ancestral grove, Unelia's character, willpower and spirit were the strongest in the family. She had more than proven that to them all. Having to lecture down to her taller, younger sister still felt odd for them both, though, and it was an entirely new experience. Unelia had always been more subdued until now.

"Everybody here is trying their best to support you, Isu, even if you're still on that whole 'I don't believe in feelings' rubbish. You know that. THIS is your home. Astranaar is our home now. Not anywhere else, and certainly not some foreign port where people accept jobs from strangers."

Completing her first task, Unelia set the featherduster down on the kitchen counter naturally grown from the floor of their den and began placing the tomes back on the bookshelf.

"Do I really have to go there? Who was it that was so adamant that there was nothing worth seeing south of Nightsong Forest? I'm not going to bring up the bad times, I swear, you know I wouldn't do that. But you also know what an ardent nationalist you always were. You were downright isolationist; this sudden change in...I mean, for anyone to change their entire worldview overnight isn't normal or healthy."

Unelia turned to take a peek, noticing that Isurith was still conscious but still motionless. Sighing extra loud on purpose, she continued, hoping that the more she spoke the more would sink in.

"Any soul searching you need to do wouldn't need to take place any further than even Darkshore or Moonglade. You aren't the only one suffering after serving on the battlefield," Unelia continued. Her eyes grew wide as inspiration seemed to strike her. "You remember how Johan and I are planning that pilgrimage to Teldrassil once Corrianna gets a bit bigger; come with us! That's what everyone is doing now. The stories about it are incredible." Her attempt at sounding upbeat felt fake even to her own ears.

Unelia turned quickly to see Isurith stirring, though it was only to scratch an itch on her shin. She wasn't responding, but she was definitely listening. Blinded by the lack of energy brought by all the sleepless days spent fretting about her sister's obsession with leaving the home, Unelia clung to a futile sliver of hope.

"You're hurting all of us, I hope you know that," Unelia said in an accusatory, matter-of-fact type of voice. "Uncle Elindir knows, by the way, and he's so upset that he doesn't even want to acknowledge the issue in front of you. Corrianna keeps asking me why her aunt looks at her but doesn't 'see' her anymore. Whether you like it or not, your choices aren't only yours to make. It...by the night, Isu, how are we even to the point of saying this out loud? Johan was raised in that environment you used to criticize so much, that individualistic living. You were so gung-ho about communalism and how it was an elven trait and an 'outlander' would never adjust. Look at him; he hasn't left Ashenvale since and now _you're_ just, what? 'Oh, it's my decision to make.' You don't even believe that when you say it."

Unelia lifted the last book from the small table to the right of the bookshelf and laid it back down, noticing her own hands trembling. Her tone had gradually become sharper during her monologue, and the truth in her words was apparent in how angry she became at herself for speaking to her sister that way. Even given the circumstance.

They hadn't even been speaking for half an hour. It should have been more cordial, but this had been brewing for the past month since Isurith had returned. She had been given a heroine's welcome, but her depression was clear to the family within her first week of arrival. Everything that had been pent up was starting to melt down as they pushed each other and themselves to a breaking point considered forward and improper in their culture.

Her head hung low as her sudden guilt at her own words weighed it down, and Unelia hurried over to the cushioned sitting area and sat with her legs off to her right, her left side right against Isurith's back. Despite there being a difference in their heights of fourteen inches, they had the same deep mauve skin tone, the same dark indigo hair, the same athletic, medium sized build and the same delicate features that contrasted with their feral grace; it was like looking at two different sizes of doppleganger mimicking the same individual.

"I hate talking to you like that. You know that," Unelia said as her voice went up in pitch. She ran her hands through her sister's hair in an attempt to calm them both. "I _hate_ it. That isn't me. And this isn't you. Isu, I'm so afraid; how much worse will our condition here be if you leave us? Even if things feel okay for one week, two weeks...gosh, listen, I'm talking only a matter of weeks now and you implied months. You didn't even plan a return date. Why are you doing this to us?"

Isurith curled into a ball even more tightly and pulled the linen sheets over her face. As painful as this was for them both, Unelia imagined that the gears were turning, that this was finally getting to her sister. She felt like she had to push even more despite the logic and reason that elves prided themselves in.

"You don't need to work, no matter how many times you blame it on that, you know it isn't an issue," Unelia said, unable to control the wavering in her tone. "We work! We'll support you for as long as it takes for you to work out everything going on with you right now! We don't mind and you know that! Sit at home, be with Corrianna, go meditate! The importer from Auberdine sells art supplies now, for how many thousands of years has it been since you last took up painting? Start again, start weaving again, whatever! You have all the time you need, if you even want to...what! What is it that we're unable to do? How did we-"

"Stop! Just stop! There's nothing going on with me! Don't put those ideas in my head, you're just projecting on to me!" Isurith didn't bother removing the linens from her face and her shout was muffled, though she sounded much more determined than Unelia. The older, smaller sister was unprepared.

"I just want to have time to myself," Isurith continued in a more controlled tone. "On my own terms. And not here. I have to go out."

"We'll give you all the time! I earn enough to rent a room for you in Darnassus at any inn you choose, you'll find yourself in the biggest elven city on Azeroth! Or we'll send you up north, wherever, but you're _not_ leaving Kalimdor! Just tell us what you want!" Unelia's plan unraveled as she lost control, screeching in desperation with an uneven tone.

"That defeats the purpose," Isurith retorted in frustration at her sister's inability to understand her. "I just need some time by mysel - Uni, let go!"

The shorter sister was now pulling Isurith up by the arm, moving her into a sitting position. Isurith didn't resist but she refused to make eye contact, still mistakenly thinking she could run from the conversation.

"Tell me, please, I'm sorry for whatever we did," Unelia choked out in rushed tones as she tried to pull her sister nearer. "I never wanted to hurt you, whatever it was, none of us meant it!"

It was painful to watch someone over thirteen-thousand years old, someone who remembered what Kaldorei society on the banks of the First Well of Eternity was like before arcane magic had even been discovered, broken and sputtering irrationally. It was another reminder of how, despite their actual ages, they were both - emotionally - only truly conscious since the Long Vigil had ended after the Third War four years prior. Before contact with the outside world, they had merely been existing but not truly living. Both sisters were now experiencing ranges of new feelings they didn't know how to control due to the end of immortality, the approach of natural death and the end of the civilization they had known for millennia.

"You never hurt me, and there's nothing to forgive. I keep telling you! I just want to go on my own for a while! I used to go out for decades during the Vigil!"

"This is different - you never left our people's territory! You know it's different! It's not about the duration, it's about the distance! And the reason which you aren't telling us!"

Unelia clutched even more tightly onto Isurith's arm as she buried her head in the back of her sister's long-sleeve cotton shirt. At no point in the millennia they had spent together had Unelia lost control, not even when their mother was killed during the War of the Shifting Sands, and now she was a broken mess on the floor with her stubborn, distant little (big) sister coldly refusing to look at her. It should have affected Isurith more. It should have made her realize how much she was hurting someone who never seemed to get hurt. But she was driven.

"I know something happened at the Refuge," Unelia groaned into Isurith's back. "We never said anything but I need to know. Isu...you were a prisoner..." her voice trailed off into nothing.

Isurith held perfectly still as her sister breathed onto her back. "I did a lot of thinking, is all. And I realized some things I hadn't before."

"They refer to you as a heroine." It seemed like it should be an honor, but Unelia's voice hinted that she suspected that something had gone wrong. "What really happened?"

"I was captured, Uni," Isurith said with a stunning lack of feeling that scared her sister. "I failed. All I did successfully was running away. They made me stand...they made me stand in the pavilion at the Refuge. Me, two other recently captured recruits whose ransom was paid and the outriders who found us. I don't even remember who was talking. They just talked so much. Went on and on about their propaganda and sisterhood and whatever. And..." This time it was Isurith's voice that trailed off.

Unelia scooted around to Isurith's side, sitting with her knees right up against her sister's leg. She kept trying to pull her younger sister closer by the arm; this was the longest Isurith had spoken at one time in more than a week, and Unelia was obsessed and manic as she tried to prod even more. "And then what, Isu? They were all happy to have you back, no matter what impression they gave."

"It wasn't the impression that was wrong. They put this pendant with a cord around my neck for supposed bravery in the face of a dire situation. It was a fucking pity medal."

Unelia moved back with a shocked expression on her face. Under normal circumstances, she wouldn't allow that type of language in her household, not even with her daughter outside. In this one individual case, though, she ignored it.

"They _care_ about you, Isu," she gasped, the strength to scold and nag drained. "Even if they didn't show it in the way you wanted, they care about you. We care about you. So what is it? There's something you're not telling me!"

Isurith continued to stare blankly at the wall, her expression unreadable. Unelia wouldn't stop staring at Isurith; they both knew this could go on for hours, but even in her weakened emotional state, they both knew Unelia wouldn't stop pushing. Stiffening as if to brace for the coming storm of judgment, Isurith finally speak up.

"It's a lie," Isurith sighed deeply as all the resentment toward her commanders, toward herself, toward her world were dug up. "The Silverwing Sentinels are a lie. More than three-quarters of our kills were civilians, I counted. The orcs aren't demons, neither are the rest of the Horde. The tauren have shared this continent peacefully with our people since the beginning, and they joined the Horde. I saw orc families, and orc children, like we see with the furbolgs up here. They were put into camps across the ocean and came here just looking for a place to be free. Many of them are evil and so are many of our people. If we just negotiated an agreement with them like we do with this '_Alliance_' we're suddenly a part of..." There was more than a hint of resentment in her voice as she said that last part.

"...then we can do so with another mortal race. I was humiliated for my failure in front of my peers, and my previous 'successes' were all so evil that I don't ever want to pick up a weapon again."

It was far more abbreviated than she would have preferred it to be, but still enough such that she was afraid of how Unelia would react. She couldn't have been more surprised.

"Why does that mean you have to abandon your family?" the elder sibling whimpered with her eyes downcast. There was no shouting. There was no condemnation. There was no judgment. There were no politics from Unelia at all. Just the feeling of hurt that her household was not good enough for her sister.

This was enough. Isurith had made up her mind before she even mentioned the issue half a month ago. Although she was determined, there was no need to torture her family. Isurith knew that she didn't deserve the amount of concern she was receiving. She wasn't worth it for them to be hurt over. She felt like she wasn't worth anything at all after what she had done, and could only think of running away and starting over.

"I'm not abandoning you," Isurith stated coldly as she stood up quickly without looking down. "Many of our people leave northern Kalimdor and travel now. You know how much has changed. I just need to explore, to travel for a bit. I need to clear my head like others have done. I won't be the first."

As Isurith ascended the spiral wooden staircase in the kitchen, her older sister remained seated on the linens, the sense of defeat apparent on her face. Isurith just rummaged around the basket of clothing on the loft overlooking the den, hoping that walking away would defuse the situation.

She moved aside the hung carpet covering and entered the women's changing room above the kitchen, still speaking dismissively from inside. "You're clinging. That's why it hurts so much. You've convinced yourself that family means we never live far apart in terms of distance and if you would budge on that definition, you wouldn't feel so bad."

Isurith exited, having donned a light brown long-sleeved, shin-length dress she often wore for local errands. She stared at the floor in front of her as she came back down, considering just shadowmelding and running out.

Her sister - the older sister, the more mature sister, the head of their household - tugged at the younger sister's sleeve like a begging child in a role reversal that Isurith hated to see. "You're not leaving us, Isu," Unelia sniffled as she wiped her face with one of her hands and jumped up next to her sister. She didn't even bother changing out of her violet house gown and neither of them bothered wearing any shoes, though that wasn't out of the ordinary for night elves. "You'll get over this and we're going to take you with us to any place you want, you'll see."

The sudden change from a whimpering mess to delusional confidence confirmed, in Isurith's mind, that her sister was in denial and simply wasn't going to accept the inevitable. As they stepped out onto the porch and saw the starry night sky, Isurith tuned out Unelia's rambling again, agreeing to whatever her sister said in an attempt to avoid any more sympathy she didn't feel she deserved and to avoid causing any more pain than she already had.

They made their way to the importer's place at the other end of the island for art supplies she would never use. Isurith hoped that the conciliatory gesture would please Unelia enough that she wouldn't notice the gradual hoarding of clothing and travel supplies behind the long dresses and assorted garments hanging in the changing room.

* * *

The streets of Astranaar were never empty night or day, the immigrants flowing in steady streams ever since the night elves joined the Alliance just over two years ago. Even around noon, there was activity with human and gnome residents, dwarven expatriates and a handful of merchants and travelers from the neutral factions. A Kaldorei daywalker could be seen here and there, though they were still very few; most of their people still preferred to save their activity for nightfall, thus turning Astranaar into a city that never truly knew sleep.

Isurith shielded her eyes from the rays of sunlight with her right hand as she clutched the strap of her travel bag with her left. Her long, braided ponytail was wrapped around her shoulders; her bag was stuffed with so much clothing and provisions that it would have been uncomfortable to leave her hair hanging behind only to get wedged between her bag and the back of her leather armor. The new hiking boots Corrianna had chosen for her creaked as she walked on the cobblestone street, creating a pleasing rythmic sound as she made her way to the flight mistress.

It was easier this way, she thought to herself. Her sister might not have heard all the details, but she knew the truth about Isurith's experience and disillusionment with the Sentinels, and knew that Isurith felt like she was less than nothing, a person who failed to even achieve the status of an efficient cold-blooded murderer. She had started to question the entire way of life her people had led with the blessing of Ysera for the millennia, millennia that had started slipping into mere images and sounds without any true feeling in all of their memories anyway.

Stepping over some gnomish botanists in her way, the ever increasing hustle and bustle of the once purely Kaldorei city was lost on her. The population was increasing by leaps and bounds with the new immigrants as well as the new night elf baby boom with children finally being born again. The lush, green-and-purple trees of Ashenvale were disappearing behind walls of buildings hastily grown or in some cases even manually built to accomdate the unnatural rush.

It all felt so alluring, yet so much of it was fake as well. She had loved their way of life so much during the Long Vigil, yet her people changed so dramatically in the past four and a half years that its end almost seemed deserved. If they weren't willing to fight to keep their isolation and their way of life, perhaps they deserved the cultural and racial dilution they were now experiencing, and deserved to lose nature's blessing. She was absolutely convinced that losing their immortality was a deserved punishment, yet it had awoken so much emotion and so many new experiences within them that it didn't even seem that bad.

"Racial dilution?" Isurith scolded to herself as she ignored the human hawkers pushing carts of cheap trinkets and greasy food as she turned onto the main east-west road through the island that was Astranaar. Her neice Corrianna was half human. How could she still be so racist? She was supposed to be over that by now.

The creaking of her new boots on the street suddenly slipped away as she was compelled to slow down by the ignorance she heard around her.

"Did you hear the latest? It's incredible," she heard a human visitor murmur to a gnome in Common. Her large ears allowed her to pick up many conversations of the loud, brash outlanders whether she liked it or not.

"Yes, the Horde has made major inroads in the Hinterlands," the gnome answered. "Such animals they are - completely uncivilized!"

Not all Horde are uncivilized, Isurith fumed to herself silently. They have families. Some of them are even kind...her mind wandered as she remembered the one member of the Horde who had affected her forever with a single act of kindness.

"Monsters, the whole lot of them!"

Her blood boiling, it took a great deal of self-control for Isurth to avoid berating the two visitors. The Alliance had its fair share of monsters, she thought. The night elves were no different; she knew firsthand of the atrocities she and her fellow sentinels had committed, murdering orcish villagers and civilian workers just as cruelly as what was happening in the Hinterlands or anywhere else.

"Those orcs," the human continued. "They're incapable of feeling!"

Isurith's heart stopped, though her pace only slowed slightly as she continued staring at the ground in front of her. She tried to will herself forward, to push through the crowd and ignore the ridiculous comment, but the memories of her crimes were already coming back to her. She stumbled, pretending she had meant to do that and hoping nobody noticed as she reeled and caught herself on an object she could no longer see and rounded a corner into someone's side yard.

"No, no no no, no, not now," Isurith pleaded with her cruel, uncaring mind as she attacked herself internally yet felt like she wasn't in control. "Not in public, not here..."

Her vision blurred as she tried to force herself back up on shaking knees, but air wouldn't enter her lungs.

* * *

The older, grey-bearded orc held his hands up in the air, the fear in his eyes uncharacteristic of the fierce descriptions Captain Ironwood had filled their heads with. The lumber cart he had been leading was tipped over, and the kodo that had been pulling it had been put down when it tried to defend the green plague that was defiling Elune's beauty.

"Please, we didn't even take that much," the pudgy orc pleaded in his own language, the mottled, dark-green freckles twitching across the bridge of his upturned nose.

Six sentinels formed a diamond around the small caravan - two orcs, a cart full of defiled Ashenvale trees and a dead kodo. They had acted so swiftly, so dextrously that the two demons didn't even realize they were surrounded until the obviously corrupted kodo was euthanized.

Thick animal blood stained the cobblestone road the orcs had constructed in south-central Nightsong Forest as they destructively ripped into the heart of the Kaldorei homeland. Shadowmelding into the dark night air, three lightly-armed sentinels had been able to approach within inches of the road, slinking along the pine-needle covered embankements as they stalked their prey. The older of the two monsters had been leading the kodo while on foot, oblivious to the fact that they had failed to wipe out the custodians of nature just yet.

"We'll put it back!" the younger of the two pudgy orcs begged, clasping his hands together as he looked up to the unfeeling eyes of the towering night elf woman closest to him. "We're sorry, we were just doing what the foreman told us to do! We didn't mean to cause problems - we didn't see anything marking the area as your-"

Although the titanic sentinel understood every word of the creature's gutteral language, she was tired of listening to his lies. Jutting her right hand forward with ease, one blade of her moon glaive penetrated the soft space just above the mottled, freckled younger orc's navel and then sliced upward until it hit his ribcage. Blood and gore spilled forth as he cried out in pain and clasped the cut, falling back on the side of the road as his head hit the ground near the feet of the older orc.

The greying orc fell down to his knees, ignoring the danger he was in as he cradled his companion in his arms and looked on helplessly as the younger demon spawn's eyes locked onto his as they slowly closed for the last time. Their upturned noses made them look like some sort of a mirror image through time, the old man watching a younger version of himself slip away as the sentinels left him alive, bearing an ominous message for the rest of his kind.

The murdered trees could be laid to rest later when they returned with their sabres and allowed the surviving monster to return to his people and warn them not to encroach on the lands of the Kaldorei.

* * *

Isurith gripped the aluminum, gnome-designed gutter alongside a elven-style house as she hid from possible onlookers on the street behind a small pine in the garden of whatever family lived there. Leaning against the wall of the currently empty house, she tried counting to ten as she searched for her ability to breathe again, forcing herself back into the present by sheer power of will.

His grandson. A year later and she finally made the connection while suffering a flashback in the sideyard of a stranger in broad daylight. Although their features were exactly the same, the age difference between the two greenskins implied that the gap between them was more than one generation. It wasn't even his son; it was his grandson. She had forced an elderly cart pusher to watch as she disemboweled his grandson.

The now former sentinel grit her teeth and forced the lump in her throat back down to the pit of her stomach. She might not be the emotionless killing machine she was during the Vigil, but nobody could stop her from running away. She had to escape. Somehow, someway, she knew that the longer she stayed in the homeland that now seemed less sacred, the further away her sanity would slip. She had to run away from the memories and the pain. She had to leave Kalimdor.

It would only be temporary, but it had to be on her own terms, she repeated to herself. Unelia couldn't know. Isurith had to leave on her own, in the middle of the day, undetected. She had to reach the neutral territories across the ocean to find herself, to put all this behind her and learn about the new Isurith, the emotional Isurith, the Isurith who was no longer in a waking dream and now lived in the reality of a very harsh world.

"Happy thoughts," she murmured to herself as she somehow found the inner strength to lurch back out to the street and continue on her way, still staring at the road in front of her as she tried to repress the memories of the past.

"Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts. I will see the world. I will find the new me. Happy thoughts."

Denial worked, and she bore the strain on her cardiovascular health as she pretended she hadn't just broken down. She was walking down the street fine and dandy. She was going to have an adventure that didn't involve fighting. She was going...to Booty Bay.

Finally looking up to see some new building being hastily grown by a clearly inexperienced pair of druids and the crowd of outlanders watching them in ignorant awe, she wondered how awestruck she would be by what she saw outside. Nobody from their ancestral grove - they never felt the need to name it during the seven millenia of the Long Vigil, but outlanders now called it Serenity - had ever left northern Kalimdor save their mother. Surely she would find things out there that would help her find some inspiration to fall in love with life again.

Without even thinking, she reached into the side pocket of her oak colored leather pants, pulling out a thick slip of paper. The gnomes had brought some odd contraption to the city called a camera; with a bizarre flash that looked arcane, it would produce a still image of something that had actually been real in the past.

Holding the image close to her face as she found a shaded stretch of the road underneath the canopy above, she examined her family portrait in an attempt to make up for not having said goodbye. Isurith stood in the back with Elindir, their uncle who had taken on the role of family patriarch since leaving the Emerald Dream with his fellow druids at the outbreak of the Third War. The two of them were quite tall - though Isurith was still taller - and occupied most of the background of the photo. He always had a smile on his face despite the horrors of war he had witnessed and the family he had watched dwindle to only a handful of members. He was so patient, even during the times when Isurith, losing control of her newfound emotions, vented anger at nothing onto him. Looking at his smile filled her with so much shame at her treatment of the family that she slid her thumb over his face, unable to bear seeing the warmth.

Seated on stools in front of them were Unelia and Johan. For one year they had lived in the wilderness, exiled by their people not due to any sort of written laws forbidding their relationship but to keep the peace when Isurith led Gwynn and several others in sowing the seeds of dischord in reaction to the interracial romance. A year later when night elves had joined the Alliance anyway and could no longer bar their return, Unelia and even Johan forgave Isurith without a second's hesitation, making her feel even more worthless as she gazed upon the faces of the brother-in-law who treated her with nothing but kindness and the sister who never once reacted to Isurith's abuse. Little Corrianna was seated across both of their laps, Johan's blonde locks and Unelia's indigo having mixed to creat a curious golden brown tint to the color of the lavender-skinned girl's braided hair. Their family was small, but very, very close.

They all exuded a love that Isurith felt was misplaced on a wretch like herself. She insulted them repeatedly on various occasions, once physically assaulted Johan and had now brought a new form of dishonor to the Swiftfoot name with her crimes against nature at Warsong. She slipped the photo back into her pocket, unable to part with it yet unable to see it any longer as well.

"Where will you be heading?" the flight mistress asked. Isurith hadn't even realized that she made it all the way to the end of the island already. The night elf daywalker was wearing sunglasses to protect her eyes, probably having been stuck with the day shift due to being a transfer or new hire.

"This is it," Isurith whispered to herself. She had succeeded in not thinking about what she was doing on her way there. As determined as she was, she had known that the final moment would be difficult. She hadn't told anyone that she would be leaving, and given how convinced Unelia had been that this was just a phase that had passed, she knew her sister would likely fall ill by midnight due to worrying about her.

Illness. Another thing the night elves had to get used to in the past few years.

A search party would surely be sent out for her; Unelia was well respected and active in proselytizing for the Temple to the non-elven races, believing that passing out pamphlets to outlanders would bring them to the guidance of Elune. The local sentinels all knew Unelia well from her efforts and at her behest would probably continue searching the surrounding woodlands even after the flight mistress simply told them that Isurith left.

The new hippogryph roost reached beyond three stories in height now, the far edge of it growing all the way down into the moat surrounding the city. It was sturdy and well-planned, and one of the few structures in Astranaar which Isurith actually admired. There were only a few people coming and going that day and the large riding beasts appeared to be well rested. A seven-by-four foot colored map of the main flight paths was posted on a wooden bulletin board next to the flight mistress with a short awning to protect it from the rain.

Isurith didn't need it. She already knew where she needed to go first.

"Theramore, please," she said nervously as she pulled some coins out of her belt pouch.


	9. Emigration 1

_Seven years and three months ago._

Isurith descended from the flight master's terrace at Theramore Isle, the culture shock of being in an all stone dwelling hitting her immediately.

Her layover in Ratchet had been under an hour. There had been a pay toilet near the neutral city's new flight master on a ridge overlooking the port town – she had been able to spy a second, older flight point in the main part of the city down below – and aside from relieving herself and stretching her legs, she hadn't wanted to spend any significant amount of time at the halfway point. It was her first time outside of north Kalimdor, and her lack of experience with the outside world caused her to believe that something, some unforseen circumstance, could still snatch her up from Ratchet and pull her right back into Astranaar, her worthless life still put on hold.

Flying over Ashenvale had been heartwrenching, but not as much as she had expected. It still amazed her, how twelve millennia of tender, naïve, almost childlike memories could have been soured by the atrocities she had committed around Warsong Gulch. She had almost expected the screams of her victims to echo in her head as she flew over the tiny battlefield tucked behind the scattered clouds below the same way they haunted her in her sleep. All was quiet that afternoon, however, save the whipping of the wind in her ears. She recognized the Gulch below, barely visible from her altitude; if there had been any activity down there, it wasn't discernable at such a height.

She had flown over the forest a number of times during her patrols in the past, the hippogriffs aiding the sentinels in their rounds during all those years when they executed their duties of watching and protecting the forests faithfully. Isurith was no stranger to flying, but she had never flown quite so high, and she had never flown south over the Ashenvale-Barrens border, not even during the Long Vigil that had occupied most of her lifespan.

The entire flight from Astranaar to Ratchet had taken an entire day and the moon was rising by the time she reached the goblin port. Most of the Alliance mounts available were gryphons the humans had imported from the Eastern Kingdoms, and they weren't comfortable or used to flying at night. Fate had helped her in her escape from her home, and the short goblin with far too many piercings in her long ears just happened to have another hippogriff ready. Flying outside of her ancestral homeland was similar to the system that had evolved among the night elves; upon arriving at a flight point, the now exhausted mount could be 'checked in,' left in the care of the flight master and exchanged for one of similar quality, health and size for a reduced fee. She was more comfortable with the nocturnal beasts ridden by her people anyway, and she was told she could arrive at the Alliance port run by the humans more or less friendly toward her people before moonset (which the outlanders insisted on referring to as 'sunrise').

And there she was, descending the staircase of the new flight point at Theramore, itself brand new and a result of the city's gradual expansion and overcrowding; it seemed a general theme of outlander cities as the younger races of the world gradually overpopulated and expanded. The human city was much dirtier than the cities, towns and even villages of the Kaldorei. The flight point above was filled with hay and gryphon droppings, and there was paper waste and other refuse mashed up against the base of the high aviary. Down in the street below, Isurith once again had to shield her eyes from the sun with her hand and she gripped her pack and searched for a place to stay. She still wouldn't feel quite settled in to her new adventure and her search for a new life until she had reached Booty Bay and was able to start working, as she had heard so many other lost souls had done.

The cobblestone was similar to the roads in Astranaar, the largest city of her people she had ever visited and the only one with paved roads; the fact that the areas of Theramore off the roads were green with grass was her sole source of comfort. The high stone walls of the city made her feel edgy and claustrophobic, and the disorganized city planning didn't help. She could smell the sties and stables already, which didn't help; night elves hunted for their meat and the concept of livestock seemed so unsanitary.

It wasn't long before the relatively enormous, enraptured-looking night elf stumbled into a small square surrounded by brick and mortar shops and apartment buildings and was bombarded with the sights and smells of a real live Alliance city. The high stone outer walls and the fortified keep towered over everything else in view, though the sheer number of buildings cramped into the city was just as overwhelming - mostly in a bad way. Even after the High Priestess' decision to unite with the humans and dwarves, it was very apparent to Isurith that their people and hers were still worlds apart.

"Bratwurst!" shouted a dwarf male in a light green pair of pants and shirt as he pushed a steaming cart of what she assumed the younger races considered 'food.' "Fresh bratwurst! Get it while it's still hot!"

"…and that's just ONE of the many benefits of our new youth potion!" a gnome with pink hair cried out to a crowd of onlookers as she stood on two chairs stacked on top of one another.

"Fools! The end is near! I drank from the sacred pool and realized that I'm the reincarnation of Medivh, and only a paid weekend at our compound on the mainland will allow you to see the dark light!" The old human was wearing a blindfold but reacted to shadows and movement as though he could probably see just fine if the light shone at the right angle.

"Hey!" Isurith exclaimed as a breathing lump of fur was shoved in her face by what was either a very short, babyfaced human male or an unusually tall dwarf female wearing priest's robes that looked too elegant to belong to him…her…it?

"Buy my goat! Buy my goat!"

"I will not buy your goat!"

Still waving her hand in protest, the overwhelmed elf moved backward until she bumped into someone almost as tall as her.

"Goddess, I'm sorry," a deep, masculine voice said in Common from behind her.

She spun around and was overcome with relief. Standing before her was a gaunt, rather handsome Kaldorei male with deep purple skin and long, eye-catching green hair, his beard and mustache clipped such that his chin was shaven but his sideburns and the hair on his jawline met his mustache in a style the humans back at Astranaar referred to as 'fu-manchu.' Although he appeared to be attempting to fit in with the denizens of the city with his haircut, his oak-colored kilt and vest insinuated that he was once a barrow den guard, one of the few night elf men who had not quite made it into the druidic order and thus spent the Long Vigil awake like the womenfolk, outside of the Emerald Dream as they guarded the sleeping druids.

"I should watch where I'm going," he continued to apologize, his face less animated than those of the humans though with a slight expression their own kind would recognize as sincere regret. "It's so difficult to focus with all this chaos."

Isurith beamed at the sight of one of her kind and didn't even realize that she had reverted to speaking Darnassian, earning stares from a gaggle of gnomes passing by. "Oh, I'm sorry too! I just got here!"

"You seem to be a traveler in this brave new world," he hummed in a low tone as his silver eyes locked on to hers. "Are you new here?"

The man's friendliness and willingness to answer in their mother tongue was comforting, and she immediately felt a lot better about where she was going if there was another of her kind possibly looking for the same new beginning.

Isurith stood up straight and wrapped her indigo braid around her shoulder again, trying to regain her composure. "Yes, I just arrived. I'm heading for Booty Bay to start a new life, but I imagine that I'll need to stay here for a day or two." Now able to speak without passersby understanding her, she felt as though she could let it all out to a kindred spirit.

The attentive male nodded, his hands at his sides. "I can show you one of the less busy inns here if you'd like," he said in a deep yet soft tone that made her feel like no matter what she needed to say, he would understand.

"Oh! That would be lovely! I was worried that I would be on my own out here."

As they walked across the island city to the place he had mentioned, Isurith began explaining all her plans in a chatty way uncharacteristic of most of her people and of herself especially. A day and a night into her journey and she was already slightly homesick and nervous, reveling in the chance for a sympathetic ear. She avoided questions about her past with the Sentinels as the two tall elves weaved in and out of oncoming laborers, peddlers and horsecarts, and to her surprise the man didn't press her to speak more on that topic. The amount of information he threw her way about navigating through human cities was overwhelming, and Isurith was sure she wouldn't even retain half of it.

Rounding a corner and cutting through the grass, they arrived at the porch of a sleepy bed and breakfast constructed from wood, much more palatable to elven taste. There were some humans playing a game she assumed was that thing called 'chess' on the porch of a leatherworker across the street. Speaking in Darnassian, however, allowed them to have a private conversation despite not being alone.

"My name is Mardrack, by the way. Mardrack Raincaller."

Realizing that she hadn't even introduced herself properly, she felt slightly embarrassed. "I'm Isurith Swiftfoot!" Damnit, why did she have to sound so eager?

"I am honored," he replied congenially, lingering for a moment as though there was something else he wanted to say. Isurith cocked her head to the side, trying to appear understanding despite her nervousness.

"My dear sister, if I could ask," he started with his eyes downcast. "I spent the previous two nights on the mainland, desiring to sleep out in nature as is common back home. I misunderstood the level of crime in the lands of the outlanders, and my travel pack was stolen."

He ran his hands through his long, flowing hair, looking down at his sandals for a moment. "I feel so embarrassed for asking this," he chuckled with a deep laugh that made her feel warm inside. "I don't know if I could…"

"You don't even have to ask! We need to stick together out here," she said on cue, already searching for her coinpurse.

"Oh my," he whispered, sounding to be in a bit of shock. "Your kindness makes me wish I were among our people again. It would…it would only take one gold piece to buy the supplies I needed to begin my herbalism work again. This Alliance we now find ourselves a part of are somewhat lacking in knowledge of natural medicine. Once I can get back to work, I'll be able to repay you in no time."

"Here, take three!" she beamed as she handed him the coins. "Our people will never survive out here unless we stick together."

The now demure male stared down at the money in his palm in awe. "My sister…I am in your debt. You have my word that I will be capable of returning your payment by the morrow."

"Oh, don't mention it," Isurith replied, nearly stuttering as she spoke. "You've already helped me to get started on my journey!"

"I'll take my leave, then, and see you at some point before tomorrow evening," he answered with a polite smile. "And one more thing…I know we would normally bow, but seeing how you're entering foreign lands now, perhaps it would be more apt to do as the humans do when among them."

Reaching forward, he took her hand in his and raised it toward his face, kissing it gently. A slight tingle shot up her spine, and she couldn't help but cover her mouth and giggle as he released her hand.

"Oh, well, um…thank you, I guess?" She could already feel her long ears heating up as he smiled politely and moved past her.

She started up the steps to the porch, but turned to watch him leave; he didn't look back, disappearing into the growing morning crowd.

It was a strange feeling. There hadn't been any men during her millennia spent in a grove of only twenty-five other women. She had a few suitors interested in her prior to the War of the Ancients ten thousand years ago, and she had even slept with one of them, but they were all so boring and the experiences been so bland that she had long forgotten them. Like many Kaldorei women, her fertility had returned soon after the loss of immortality but the only men she had close interactions with at that point were her uncle Elindir and her brother-in-law Johan. She wasn't the type to lust after a committed man (especially one committed to her sister) and besides, humans were far too short for her anyway. She occasionally passed by men while going about her business during her month in Astranaar and met one or two passing through the men's quarters at Silverwing Refuge, but other than that – for all her twelve millennia of life experience – this had only been her _second_ meaningful interaction with a non-related man of suitable height since she had awoken emotionally after the end of the Long Vigil.

Isurith shook her head, realizing that she could fantasize about that kiss to her hand again some other time. For now, she was tired and sore from a day of riding through the air.

Walking through the door of the bed and breakfast, she saw a bored looking pair of human teenagers with matching round features, dirty blonde hair and red-and-black uniforms that led her to assume they were brother and sister. They sat behind the well-crafted wooden counter, completely uninterested in the few patrons munching on human breakfast foods at the scattered tables. She made her way over to the sister and laid her hands on the counter.

"I'd like to know…" she murmured, stopping herself once she realized she was still speaking Darnassian. The teenager looked up at her as though it was the most agonizing phrase she had ever been forced to listen to, idly chewing on something as she leaned into her hand.

Isurith cleared her throat and started again in her slightly accented Common. "I'd like to rent a room for the day and the night, please."

The teenager couldn't look more bored. "Ten silver," she droned.

Searching through her coinpurse, Isurith realized that she had lent most of her cash to the kind Kalodrei man she had met outside. There was enough left for at least two nights at the inn and some supplies. Her lent money was in good hands, though, and she paid the room fare without hesitation.

Without removing her head from her hand, the teenager slapped a key down on the countertop from a seemingly nonexistent drawer. "Second floor, third door on the left."

Making her way upstairs, she could already feel the anxiety growing and bunching up in her chest. Sleep hadn't been the same for the past month and some days; memories of the past she knew would never stay buried were strongest when she lie awake in bed.

The room was adequate enough. There weren't many other guests at the inn during daylight hours, and the darker wood used for the interior of her quarters almost made the atmosphere appear even darker. Because the establishment was tucked away in a little side street, there was minimal noise outside. The bed was spacious, the room was warm and in theory there shouldn't be anything in the environment preventing her from drifting off.

Sleep would still be difficult in coming that day. The restless elf shifted her travel bag from her shoulder and laid it on the wooden floor, her head filled with apprehension both over the decision to leave the care of her sister's household and the nightmares she knew would come. During her first two weeks back in Astranaar, she occasionally woke up screaming, scaring the entire house. Unelia had assumed it must have been a recurring memory of a grievous injury or the loss of a comrade.

Isurith had kept to herself the reality: every day, her victims were in front of her again. Never the opposing soldiers of the Horde; they had signed up, and were legitimate targets. No, the ones that haunted her dreams were the innocents: the lumberjacks, the cart pullers, the simple peons who wandered a bit too far into the forest. While the night terrors were no longer so intense that they caused her to yell or babble in her sleep, they were still a daily form of punishment she almost felt guilty for shying away from. Something deep down in her conscience whispered to her that she deserved any misfortune that befell her, that she deserved to suffer in atonement for the noncombatants she had so ruthlessly murdered.

The tormented elf slipped off her leathers and slid under the warm covers of the bed, thankful at the length of the blanket. She pulled it far up over her head, a feeble attempt to stave off the horrors reminding her of who she truly was.

The deafening silence of the room, which should have been comforting, only made things worse. Hoarse whispers, just barely audible, flashed through the fabric of the blanket, not quite loud enough for her to be sure they were real but still detectable. No matter how old and mature she was, how many times she tried to convince herself she was just being silly, the quick pinches she felt over the top of her covers were so similar to someone trying to drag them off of her that she could do nothing but tense every muscle in her body, paralyzed in the bed. Seeming to echo from far, far away, the gibbering of mutilated phantoms approached, forcing her to remain under the comforter where her breathing was restricted. Mothers, fathers, children, all sliced and torn from where Isurith had cut them into pieces.

None of them were seeking revenge. None of them were trying to punish her, even if a more twisted part of her soul secretly desired for them to do so. No, all of them simply asked why. Why she had never stopped to differentiate between someone in uniform and someone just trying to do a job. Why her people would allow humans and dwarves to destroy the forests but would not excuse the much poorer and less advanced orcs from doing so. Why she had to take them away from those they loved, a reminder of why she felt she had to get away from those _she_ loved.

Yet somehow, in the middle of what seemed like night, someone spoke to her. Someone other than the pleading, maimed phantoms.

In the darkness, through the screeching of her innocent victims, the murderer was reminded. Reminded that, for whatever reason, had survived; for whatever reason, she had lived when they had not and had a second chance at life.

It was a deep, soothing voice, and in the middle of her attempt to sleep, it was the only thing that saved her.

"It'll be alright..."

Maybe it wasn't real. It probably wasn't real. The phantoms weren't either, but at that moment, none of that mattered. One phrase of reassurance that she didn't deserve but was still given, and for whatever reason...the apparitions had been distracted and drawn away. The tugging and tearing at her blanket stopped, and Isurith's muscles relaxed.

Eventually she drifted off, her head exposed outside of the blanket as she breathed normally. Normally...a description she could so rarely apply to herself, but for which she was so thankful on those rare occasions when it applied.

* * *

It wasn't quite dark yet by the time she woke up, but her thighs were aching much less from the roughly twenty-four hours of transit on flying mounts the day before. Rolling out of bed, she slowly crept over to a door which she assumed was one of those internal restrooms Johan had once explained his people used. The thought of keeping an outhouse so close to where one slept had disgusted her at first, though now that nature was calling it didn't seem so bad. Figuring out how to work the strange dials and knobs on the wash basin called 'faucets' was difficult, and she went through the process of learning how the settings functioned.

"Youch!" she yelped as she drew her hand back from a stream of water that was far too cold considering the warm, swampy climate outside. This was going to be a long evening. She washed her hands by sticking them under the water for a split second and then pulling back, gradually wetting the entire surface.

Much to her surprise, the water changed temperature after half a minute or so of running. The humans' plumbing was as confusing as their behavior; why couldn't they just grow wooden and stone aqueducts via the bond with nature and organically route flowing water through isolated privacy trees like normal people?

Descending the staircase after her first experience with indoor plumbing, she saw that the moon was now rising and several tables in the main room of the bottom floor were full with traveling groups and locals composed of humans, dwarves, gnomes and even a few high elves of various shapes and sizes. Most were speaking quietly and politely, a welcome change from the raucous laughter and boasting she heard from the few times she had spied outlanders congregating at one of the few travelers' hostels back in Astranaar.

"Astranaar…" she mumbled under her breath as she wondered for how long she would be comparing every foreign city she visited to the only true elven city she had ever been to.

Unfamiliar with the customs of the humans, Isurith wandered over to the counter and waited for the teenage girl to finish counting coins despite the fact that her brother was already free. Neither of them took notice, and she had to clear her throat in order for them to even look up at her.

"Wow, you're big," commented the teenage boy. The tallest person either of the two youths had ever seen ignored his somewhat insulting remark and addressed his sister instead.

"Could I take a seat, please?"

The teenage girl looked at her brother incredulously and then back at the giant, light purplish elf in front of her. "You can sit wherever you want."

Confused by their reaction, Isurith sat down at an empty table against the opposite wall and proceeded to shout her order from the spot, assuming this was their custom given that humans were so loud.

"CAN I EAT SOME WAFFLES?"

The entire room was staring at her now, making her feel like she was only three inches tall. The teenage boy only nodded and went to the back room and everyone else in the room went back to their conversations. Having some relief from her embarrassment, Isurith was left to her own thoughts again as she waited for her food.

She pulled out the family portrait from her pocket to look at it for the first time since she had left home. It had been a day, and her sister was probably bedridden with worry by now, a search party of local sentries scouring the immediate woodlands around the island at her behest. An image of Johan kneeling next to Unelia and patting her hand while Elindir tried to distract Corrianna from his mother's stress-induced illness flashed through Isurith's mind, causing her to put the portrait away and remind herself of why this had to be.

As guilty as Isurith felt about leaving, she still felt worse about the legacy of her heroism that she felt she had sullied permanently with the civilian lives she had so cruelly taken. There was nothing left for her in Ashenvale, she repeated to herself, and finding her own new path in this new outside world would give her a reason to continue living, breathing and getting out of bed in the evening.

She had heard so many amazing stories about the former pirate cove turned goblin trading port across the sea, and how it was a burgeoning metropolis where one could meet people from all over the world. So many new experiences, so many new opportunities…she would go there and use her fluency in six languages – three, Darnassian, Thalassian and Nazja, were almost more like dialects but still – and make the connections she needed to make something of herself that didn't involve cold blooded killing. She hadn't even brought any weapons with her, not even a knife. She had done so much harm to the world already in so short an amount of time that she never wanted to fight again. She would show Unelia that it was the right decision to make, that she could-

"Here you go," the boy said as he laid a plate of soggy brown squares in front of her with disinterest.

Isurith stared at the 'food' with disappointment. "I thought these were made of wheat? This looks like a piece of wet carpet."

"Twenty silver."

She already had the first soggy bite in her mouth when she froze.

"Really?"

"Yep. Twenty silver." The skinny kid seemed slightly interested in his money.

"That's twice as expensive as the room!"

"Wheat flour is difficult to get out here," he explained. "There aren't too many farms nearby."

Figuring that she already had to pay since she had started, the surprised elf searched through her coinpurse as she chewed on the second bite. She hadn't realized how much money she had already given away.

"I only have twenty five silver left," she muttered to her waffle instead of the disenfranchised teenager.

"Twenty is less than twenty five."

She sighed as she paid and rubbed her remaining five silver pieces between her fingers. There were so many talents she had; so many arts, crafts and trades she had picked up over thousands and thousands of years. And there she sat, alone in a bed and breakfast, realizing that having spent all that time in a society with little material want, she was unable to plan a budget and portion her money.

The indigo-haired elf finished her meal in earnest as she berated herself for not having kept a written record of what she was spending. Wisps mined the raw materials the night elves needed and grew their buildings for them. If someone needed money, they just asked another night elf and it was given without question; they were communal and loved to share everything. The idea of running out of money and people not giving her things was a bitter pill to swallow.

As she rose after completing her meal, she stiffened her upper lip and resolved to learn how the economy of the outlanders functioned. Booty Bay was supposedly the economic center of the world; she would be in the thick of it. She had to learn to survive if she wanted to achieve her dream.

"This is for employees only," the boy complained as Isurith tried to take her own plate back into the kitchen.

"But it needs to be cleaned," she asked him with her head cocked to the side.

"We have people for that," he grumbled. Snatching the plate from her large yet feminine hands, he walked into the back without returning to tell her if he needed help. They had...people? How does one own people? Why would somebody spend their life only washing things?

Outlanders were so complicated, she thought, but this would be her life now. Once she was in the middle of it, she found it easy to forget about the awful reason she had left her old life in the first place and could just focus on the present. She exited the inn and looked around for a quiet place to think about what she would do next.

Moping as she sat on a bench in the side yard of the inn, Isurith tried to figure out what to do about money. A ticket all the way to Booty Bay would cost at least one gold piece and that would mean a shared room. Once she arrived there, she would need at least another gold for her first few days. Without question, she told herself, she would get to work from her first day there but until then, she was stranded far from her home in a strange place with almost no funds.

She was so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she hadn't even noticed the loose pot-bellied pig that waddled up next to the bench. It wasn't until the creature started nuzzling her leg that she looked down. Sure, it was a bit odd looking, but it was still one of nature's creatures.

"You don't happen to have any money I could borrow," she asked it rhetorically, "would you little one?"

It looked up at her with its big, slightly disappointed eyes. "Oink."

She shook her head, smiling slightly at her own misfortune. "Of course you wouldn't. You live out here in the real world. You wouldn't be so naïve."

It raised an eyebrow as if it understood her. "Oink?"

Isurith inhaled and then exhaled deeply, trying to look at her situation logically. "Wisps extract raw materials and natural resources for us where I come from," she explained, "and they provide whatever we need for the necessities of life. We night elves focus on our duties protecting nature or pursuing hobbies. Out here, with orcs and humans…there's just so much poverty and hardship."

"Oink."

"Yes, I know," she answered as though this were a real conversation. "I really didn't know what I was getting myself into. But I couldn't stay."

"Oink?"

"Because I had thrown my legacy away. I fought so hard for this planet…I was a civilian during the War of the Ancients, but all night elf women had to become warriors after the Sundering. Virtually all of our menfolk entered the Emerald Dream, leaving us to fend for ourselves during the Long Vigil. I served in the Third War and helped stop the Burning Legion from invading Azeroth again at the Battle of Mount Hyjal." She stared off into the distance, pained by remembering what was once so noble and now stained with her sins. "It wouldn't be pompous to say that I was a heroine for much of my life."

"Oink?"

"Well, Warsong Gulch happened. I bought into a lot of propaganda and ended up taking actions I didn't properly consider. I…I killed people. Murdered them. Not combatants. I killed people that had nothing to do with the fighting. Captain Ironwood told us to trust in her command, and that the orcs were demons who hated nature. But they were only doing the same thing our human and dwarven 'allies' are doing here."

"Oink."

"Right. It was really, really bad. Maybe it hurt me a bit more than it should have. Maybe I shouldn't be so hard on myself. I have thousands of years of experience fighting the good fight under my belt, but that's probably why it hurts so much more. I try to rationalize it as much as I can, but then why do my victims' screams fill my nightmares every single night? Why can't I have good dreams anymore? Why can't I even have one dream where I get punished myself?"

"Oink?"

"No. No, I can't. I don't feel…I don't feel like I deserve forgiveness. If even one innocent life died needlessly at my hands, I would say the same. And I murdered _fifty-seven_ civilians. Fifty-seven. I remember every last one of them. I…"

"Oink."

"What?"

"Oink!"

"You think I should go?"

"Oink!"

"And start over again?"

"Oink!"

"I keep telling myself that, but I almost don't believe it. I don't even deserve the second chance I was given by the man that...I mean…how could the world have a place for a person like me?"

"Oink!"

"Take what?"

"Oink!"

"My…chances?"

"Oink!"

"Oh, you mean take my chances!"

"Oink!"

"With a new life at Booty Bay!"

"Oink!"

"But…I spent all my money. I can't even measure the weight of a coinpurse properly."

"Oink."

"What was that?"

"Oink."

"Oh…oh! Mardrack! Wait a minute, how did you even know about that?"

"Oink."

"Because…wait, what?"

"Oink."

"Oh…because you're just a pig.

"Oink."

"And you don't really know."

"Oink."

"Or understand anything I'm saying."

"Oink."

"I'm just projecting my own inner thoughts onto you."

The pot-bellied pig promptly plopped down on the grass and passed out, leaving the elf wondering if the whole exchange had even been real.

Isurith stood up and dusted off her pants for no readily available reason, read to enter the growing evening crowd in the streets. She was in no rush to lave, but considering that she had nothing else to do, a stroll as she searched for her new friend sounded like a fine idea. Surely once she was able to get some of her money back from the handsome male, she could think and plan her voyage across the ocean more comfortably.


	10. Emigration 2

_Seven years and three months ago._

Back out on the side street, the crowds were already gathering for some evening window shopping and tavern crawling, though it was nothing like the descriptions she had heard of the goblin cities. There were no flashing lights powered by heated gas nor was there the diversity she was hoping to see in the neutral zones. Weaving in and out of the foot traffic and stepping over the gnomes, she passed several more brick and mortar buildings until she made her way out to the main square.

The lighting was brighter due to all the torches, and the mixture of bright and dim caused difficulty for her nocturnal eyes. Her excessive height, however, helped her to see over the entire crowd save the two mounted knights on their tall steeds. The city gates were closed that night and there were a number of armored foot soldiers roving the streets in order to keep the peace.

Isurith scanned the crowd, looking for the one person she felt she could trust as a fellow stranger in this strange land. It wasn't long before she spied, across the square and on a side street with numerous patrons seated at tables on a shady, isolated patio area between two workshops, those strands of vibrant evergreen hair.

Her search was momentarily cut off by a hunched over human waving a cold jar of pickles in front of her face.

"Get them while they're hot!" what she assumed was a human female blabbered.

Isurith balked at the jar and the hawker, perturbed by the thought of someone who didn't know her assuming she would be interested in their wares. Why were outlanders so pushy? They should just wait for customers to ask for something like Kaldorei do.

"I do not desire your heated vinegar tubers," Isurith said in her emotionless sentinel voice, frustrated that she had lost sight of Mardrack.

The crowd was noisy and chaotic, with dozens of people whose heads were at the level of Isurith's chest or lower pushing and shoving yet not seeming bothered. Elves were not touchy-feely people, and while they didn't shy away from public gatherings, they certainly didn't like even the thought of a stranger pushing on their arm lightly to squeeze by in a crowded area. If people would just slow down and wait, they would be able to run whatever errands they needed to run.

Refocusing her thoughts, Isurith spied the patio again. The cobblestone side street on the opposite side of the square was somewhat dark, perhaps about ten feet wide and bordered by two-storey buildings on each side. The patio was further down the street and off to the left side though part of it was visible from her vantage point; it led into what she assumed was some sort of restaurant as the handful of tables she could see were patronized by various humanoids with drinks in their hands. Perhaps her fellow night elf had gone for his breakfast after moonrise and was sharing his knowledge with the outlanders in a casual setting.

"Forgive me for asking," she whispered to herself in Darnassian as she made her way across the square with a large fountain in the middle.

Truth be told, she felt embarrassed to ask for her money back so early but surely Mardrack would understand given her situation and the fact that he had only asked for a single gold piece anyway. Weaving in and out of the crowd of short people again, she rounded the fountain and tried her best to tune out all the hawkers and competing town criers sitting or standing on the circular three-foot high barrier separating the pavement of the square from the grass in between the various streets that lead to it.

The night elves spent their lives in naturally grown cities, the druids in the Emerald Dream directing the production of food crops without the need of labor and the slow growth of the enormous Kalimdor purplewood trees that ringed most settlements as an impenetrable barrier. Within the small to medium sized groves where the bulk of their population dwelled, the priestesses communicated directly with the forest regarding the worldly affairs of their people, deciding where barracks or other dwellings would grow and where huntress lodges would be established; the sentinels handled the logistics of where supplies and materials would be shipped by sabre or hippogriff, and both components of the Sisterhood of Elune would direct the wisps when small changes such as raising small stones from the soil for more even walkways or growing small wooden structures such as fences or sheds as necessary. Even in real cities like Astranaar, everything was open, spacious, and meticulously organized for both utility and comfortable living before the outlanders came.

But this…as Isurith approached the other side of the square and passed the last stone barrier onto the side street, she only hoped even more than she could leave the solely human city and reach a destination that was a little more open. Even if Booty Bay wasn't a Kaldorei city, it wasn't a human city either, and it was a port open to the ocean on one side and the natural jungle on the other. She hoped the tropics were as her mother had told her when recounting her travels to Feralas thousands of years ago.

As Isurith approached the patio, she could hear the sound of dozens of people laughing, joking and shouting out numbers as small wooden objects collided with wooden tables. Each table had an attendant standing at it with matching attire handing something out to the people who were seated.

Once Isurith passed the last building on the left and reached noisy, crowded patio, she noticed that Mardrack was seated between two short human women at one of the tables, each wearing rather loose fitting evening gowns. The fact that each of them were clinging to one of his muscular arms sent a tinge of jealousy up the former sentinel's spine. Night elf men were so fewer in number than night elf women, she thought to herself. Even for her sister Unelia to marry a man outside of the race had been difficult to accept. For Isurith to see Mardrack, a male, snuggling with two outlander females rather than two females of their own kind – even if she wasn't one of them – was already boiling her blood more than she liked to admit.

"He might have an excuse," she sighed to herself in their language as she walked through the swinging gate leading to the upper part of the patio with two black-suited human attendants on each side. "Maybe they followed him and he's just too polite to break their hearts."

The perplexed elf was so intent on politely requesting some of the money back and to know, ahem, what the hell Mardrack thought he was doing with those two tiny tarts, that she didn't even notice when one of the puny humans tried to hold her back and ask for identification. The comparatively miniscule gateman hadn't realized how close he was to being stepped on and yanked himself back from the much larger elf at the last moment.

While the two human women and several other patrons looked up at the glowing and glowering silver eyes above them, the target of the stare continued ignoring the bearer of those two eyes. He was more focused on the playing cards between his hands and the gold coins piled in front of him, as were the others seated at the table. Several patrons who were standing around, leaning against the patio walls as they drank and smoked, began looking back from whence Isurith had come nervously, as though they were expecting something.

"Ma'am, are you a guest of one of the established customers," the black-suited non-gentleman who had tried to stop her earlier asserted, rather than asked, in Common.

"Mardrack," she called out, ignoring the gateman. The night elf male began saying something urgent to the patron to the right of one of the two human women, trying hard to distract the others from the pissed off night elf female.

"Mardrack, I need to talk to you," she urged in Darnassian.

"Speak Common, please," the gateman prodded. "We need to understand what people are saying when hands are being played."

The human female on the left of 'Mardrack' and closest to Isurith looked up at her and then to the Kaldorei man. "Heralath, do you know this person?"

"Heralath?" No, this wasn't adding up!

The green-haired male turned to look nonchalantly at the indigo-haired female before turning back to his blonde human escort. "No, I don't believe I've seen this person before. Her dialect is unintelligible to me."

A few of the other patrons cooed and leaned closer at the word 'unintelligible' as though it was itself unintelligible and scholarly. He had these people hook, line and sinker.

"Darnassian doesn't…have dialects! Just accents!" Isurith choked out, speaking the first half in Orcish and the second half in Nazja without realizing that she was code switching, such was her shock at the blatant lie. People from the next table over began looking and pointing and she suddenly felt very alone, and very exposed.

"Mardrack, I need'do borrow somoff thaat money baack," she managed to utter in stumbling Common with an even heavier accent than usual, her face turning an even darker shade of purple as she tried not to think about what was happening around her and focus on why she came.

Eyes were darting between the two night elves now and the second gateman had come over to the table.

"My lady," the male elf started in fluent Common with a clearly fake, forced accent that caused the humans around the table to instinctively lean toward him in awe. "If you're in need of help, there are several clerics of the Light offering meals for the needy up on the hill."

Though he said it with a straight, unemotional face, she could hear murmurs and a gnomish youth gasping 'ooohhhhh' somewhere off to the side.

Isurith clenched her fists and grit her teeth, her warrior rage screeching for her to cleave the heads off of the nearest ten people with so much as the sharp edges of the playing cards on the table. Some dwarf _jackass _at the next table over actually stood up on a chair and folded her arms to get a better view of the show.

"Ma'am, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave," the second gateman stated as he reached for her arm.

"Get your filthy hands off me!" she shouted in Darnassian as she pulled away and stepped back toward the stairs leading down from the upper patio.

Isurith had never felt so insulted in her entire life, and the fact that all these gawking idiots at the other tables wouldn't refrain from observing a conflict that wasn't theirs amplified her anger and directed it out at the entire world around her. It was only then that she heard the clinking of metal boots as one of the town foot soldiers passed through the gate and walked onto the patio. There were gasps from several patrons as the attendants at the next two tables folded the cards away and quickly set up some more bottles containing the ingredients for their foul alcoholic mixtures.

"What's all the commotion about?" the foot soldier asked in a formal, commanding voice. His shining silver-grey armor seemed heavy and he had to have been the tallest human Isurith had ever seen, even moreso than Johan, his head nearly as high as the overly tall night elf's own shoulder.

"Nothing from our end," burst out the attendant at the nearest table. "We're just trying to offer our newest beverages here, but we suspect that certain patrons might have difficulty knowing their limits."

"Certain…patrons? Limits?" Isurith repeated with a stutter that betrayed the clouds in her mind. It took her a few seconds to realize the pimply human was speaking about her, though she still didn't understand what he meant.

"Ma'am, do you understand Common?" the clinking foot soldier asked.

Isurith turned to the ignorant questioner with such a rage in her eyes that she could have stopped a mountain giant dead in its tracks. The foot soldier held his ground unafraid and the fuming former sentinel realized that both gatemen and even Mardrack or Heralath or whatever the hell he was calling himself were all standing a bit closer to her now, forming a half-diamond around her with the side street behind.

Isurith's heart was beating too fast, increasing her dizziness as her adrenaline-pumped muscles were denied the release they were crying out for. She could take all of them unarmed – if Maralath had any common sense, he would be very aware of what his people's womenfolk were capable of – but what little logic was left in her increasingly feral brain warned her of the whistle on a thick string hanging around the foot soldier's neck.

Eating a huge serving of crow and stabbing herself in the heart, Irusith backed down from the confrontation and stormed off the patio, her intentionally loud stomps as she rounded the corner and moved back out to the edge of the main square her only means of protest.

"Obviously a lower class person in our society," she overheard the two-timing excuse for a Kaldorei proclaim to the small crowd that had congregated. "Such individuals are unfortunately thrust upon your graciousness here due to their inability to achieve back home."

"Lower class?" she repeated incredulously in more fluent Common with less of an accent. Nobility and class division were removed from Kaldorei society after the criminalization of arcane magic and the aristocracy which caused the War of the Ancients! Isurith's fury at this dirty rotten scoundrel suckering her out of her money and telling lies about their proud, honorable people could no longer be pent up. She spun around, making the mistake of shouting back toward the patio within earshot of several groups of people on her side of the town square.

"You know what you – hey!" Isurith pulled back as she realized the foot soldier had followed her out onto the patch of grass next to the street and was standing only two feet away, the human's dark brown eyes glaring up at her.

_No_, the elf scolded herself inside. No! No! No! No! You moron, you worthless excuse for a warrior! Do NOT flinch back from a human! Do! Not!

"Perhaps you should wait out by the docks for the next ship," the foot soldier ordered as he pointed toward a small, open wooden gate in the city wall through which the ocean could be seen. "Now."

A mustacheod cavalryman rode up behind Isurith, his hands on his hips as he sat pompously atop his steed. The anger rose inside of her as she realized that she wasn't only being kicked out of the gambling den; the humans were running her out of town. These insects, these worms with lifespans shorter than her mood swings, were running her out of town for the sake of that fraud, that phony betraying asshole who called himself by two names. The pride of a defender of Azeroth, a woman who spent millennia defending the planet from demons so these mongrels could even be born, was stung by the audacious lack of proper respect.

"I was going there anyway!" the disrespected night elf answered with a voice far less powerful than what she had intended.

"We're sorry we let such riff-raff slip through," she heard the second gateman apologizing to Heralath the lying thief. "You're a respected and hard-working part of the community and you don't deserve such shabby treatment."

It was too much. These people have no idea what happened, Isurith thought to herself. Why couldn't they just give her a chance to explain? Why were they all against her? She hadn't been in what was truly an Alliance rather than a Kaldorei city for even a full day yet and she already had yet another reason to wish High Priestess Tyrande had never aligned their people with such a 'civilization.' Unelia would have met Johan anyway considering that he left his people to live among theirs two years before Darnassus even joined forces with Stormwind; her people had nothing to gain as a whole and her family had nothing to gain on a personal level from dealing with these outlanders at all.

As Isurith strode away, a half elf woman with strawberry blonde hair who had been leaning against the wall beside the patio with a few admirers took notice. "Take it easy, blueberry!"

The hurt, anger, rage, and humiliation of being treated in such a way publicy spurred Isurith to swing around again, still backing up toward the side gate in the wall leading to the docks as another foot soldier converged, the two infantry and single cavalry following her out as the night elf continued to back up.

"That's _racist_!" Isurith shouted a bit louder, though still with a weaker voice than she had wanted to produce. "That is a racist statement!"

The three soldiers stood motionless and unsympathetic at the gate once Isurith had exited the town completely, watching to make sure that she would walk along the shoreline against the high city walls and loop around the side wall of the keep forming an alternative entrance to the docks.

* * *

Once she was sure they could no longer see her in the dark, she took off around the corner in an attempt to work some of the remaining adrenaline out of her system before she crashed. Isurith had been through war, had heard the taunts of her foes, had been involved in squabbles with other sentinels and had even been mocked for a bit when her captors had first thrown a net over her at Warsong Gulch and dragged her back to the jail at the Mor'shan Rampart. But never in her life had she been forced to suffer the utter indignity she had this night. She had been swindled, lied to, lied about, laughed at, verbally degraded and then run out of town. She hate hate hated this place, hated that man and hated the utter lack of respect from people whose lifespans were comparable to those of rodents.

At an artificially shaped edge of the shore of the hexagonal island, Isurith spied an iron cylindrical post with a carved wooden sign colored like cement at the top that read 'THERAMORE.'

How could these _mongrels_ judge her, she thought. They were the ones building a signpost in a place where nobody would read it. Her fists shaking with rage and her muscles shaking with unreleased power, Isurith clenched her fist and swung to punch that stupid sign halfway across the ocean.

_::THUD::_

"AAAAAAAARRRRGGGHGHHHHH!" she bellowed as her skin grated against the solid stone sign that had only _appeared_ to be made from wood. The rock chipped and broke apart from the gigantic elf woman's strength, with grey dust mixing in with the cuts on her bruised and battered right fist.

Isurith bent over and jumped up and down with her hands tucked between her legs as she sucked air in through her teeth and tried not to pass out from the strain that had been thrust on her cardiovascular health that evening. Snapping her head back up, she ran further down the shoreline, wanting only to find the first ship out of Kalimdor as any regret she had over leaving the entire blasted continent disappeared. The passenger docks toward the front of the city would be closed at that hour, but Heradick had told her before she slept that cargo shipping at the back ran twenty-four hours a day.

It wasn't long before she came upon the more isolated area for the cargo shipping, a few ogre dockworkers loading up crates onto three separate large ships as some small goblins and gnomes directed them. She ran over to them without realizing that, considering the fact that she was almost as tall as the ogres and it was the middle of the night, she might intimidate them.

As she approached, the sensitive ears of a goblin male with a stubbly face and dark blue overalls smudged with oil picked up her normally light footsteps. He turned to face her, more than a little afraid as the dark figure with long, pointed ears, long eyebrows, bloody knuckles and two glowing eyes headed right for him.

"Can I…um…help you?" he asked anxiously, glancing back at the two ogre dock workers who were just as frightened as he was.

"I need to get to Booty Bay," she panted, fighting to not let her voice waver.

He scratched his head, trying to look friendly and unassuming. "Well, this is the midnight ship. We're heading there in just two and a half hours, but we haul cargo. Passengers mean added weight."

Isurith didn't realize how pleading her tone had become. "Please," she urged. "I _need_ to leave town tonight. I can work. I speak six languages. Just give me something to do. Please!"

The goblin had calmed down a bit now, seeing that she was far from hostile, and the two dockworkers continued loading.

"Well…Pogo-pogo over there has decided to stay here in Theramore until the next shipment, and you'd be less weight than him anyway. But…I mean, no offense but I don't know you. I'd like to help, but the boss here on this end would need some sort of boarding fare because even if you do some sort of work on the way there, you wouldn't legally be employed; the paperwork would take a day and you couldn't leave tonight. You'd count as a passenger, and that's even if we make an exception."

Without thinking, without considering what she was doing, and without a second more of hesitation, she searched through her backpack and pulled out something she hated to see: the medal she had received from the Silverwing Sentinels after the humiliating speech she had to endure in front of her former peers. Her pity medal. A constant reminder of what a failure she was, of what a heartless murderer she had become, of what a miserable life she was trying to leave behind.

"Here," she said as she shoved it down into his chest. "It's pure, sterling silver, original Kaldorei handwork. It's yours."

The dollar signs could almost be seen flashing across the goblin's eyes before he quickly tried to play it cool. "Well…I don't know…it's pretty nice…but I'm feeling nice too tonight and…ohwhattheheckwelcomeaboard!"

Had she been in a calmer state of mind, his overenthusiasm wouldn't have been lost on her. Turning toward a gnomish deckhand, the goblin motioned for the rope cordoning off the entrance at the top of the ramp to be removed so the crew's newest member could climb aboard.

Isurith had already zipped up her backpack and passed the covetous captain as she pushed the two ogres out of the way and tossed the last crate all by herself over the railing and onto the deck. With a few long strides, she practically leapt up the ramp and over to the door leading below the deck.

All she wanted to do was find the most isolated part of the ship to brood in for however many weeks it took to cross the great ocean, and move on to a nice, wholesome place like Booty Bay without all the _liars_ and _two-timers_. The captain didn't even check on her as they cast off a few hours later, and Isurith finally left her people's continent after twelve-thousand years of blissful naiveté.

**A/N: In case you're wondering, Heralath doesn't get to exploit others forever, though his other appearances are not in stories related to this one. Just thought I'd share. More from Cecilia/Isurith's past to come, though for the next few chapters we will be returning to the present time - in Gorgrond!**


	11. Intensity

The two of them stood by the boulder at the edge of the spring now, silently reattaching the pieces of armor they had shed before dancing. Cecilia took her time as she carefully strapped her plate boots and shinguards back on, leaning against the boulder for balance as she did so. Khujand knelt down on the shore as he slipped on his own gear, taking as much time as she did in order to avoid finishing first and then having to stand with nothing to do but watch her like a weirdo.

Neither of them said a word as they redressed. They knew they had talked for hours, him sharing his life up until now, she sharing hers...well, only until about seven years ago when she first arrived in Booty Bay, but she was a much more talented and detailed storyteller than him. They both felt dizzy, and despite the ease at which they talked and opened up about their pasts, their hopes, and their fears, there was now a nervous energy in the air.

They both stood up to strap their weapons back in their proper places, the audible clips and clacks as leather bindings and metal chains fastened on the only sounds aside from the regular soundtrack of nature. The insects chirping and exotic birds occasionally calling provided some background noise to lessen the awkwardness if only slightly.

Khujand had never slept around, but the tense moment reminded him of how his old friends had described waking up next to a stranger. He felt as though he knew Cecilia so well, like he had met a long lost friend who could read into his expressions; still, the fact that the two of them had spent time together opening up old wounds and trying to help each other mend them was a very exposed, almost vulnerable feeling.

The snap of her moon glaive into the side of her right bracer brought him back, its smooth sound somewhat relaxing despite the lightheaded feeling lingering from having done more talking than breathing. The way she was so meticulous about her gear despite the increasingly intense tremble in her hands was almost mesmerizing in a way.

"Could you help me with my shield?" she asked shyly, appearing to hesitate before speaking to him for the first time.

There was almost a tingle in his spine as he looked over to her, her eyes locked onto his as she appeared to stifle an embarrassed smile.

"Sure."

She held her left arm out in front of her and reached over it with her right, gripping the top of the large tower shield to hold it steady in the sand below. It took a huge amount of self control for his own hands to not tremble too as he reached around the inside of her left arm to pull the leather shield straps down. There was some difficulty with lacing them up exactly.

"This's a bit trickier than I thought," he whispered as he was finally able to smile without feeling self-conscious.

"Keep trying. You'll get it." They were both fixated on the leather straps now, finally given an excuse not to fixate on each other.

He could feel his heart pounding up in his neck as he worked, and tried to ignore his rising heart rate by focusing on the damn straps. His large fingers had a bit more trouble with the buckles.

"An incredible amount a work must've gone inta this," he murmured, almost uncomfortable with the silence where they had both been entirely comfortable with it a few hours ago.

"It's an imitation of elven work," she answered waveringly, "but still well made. It took me two years of security service on a goblin ship with Irien to pay it off." The cause of her tone was unreadable, and he was too shy to sneak a peek at her face now.

Finally, he seemed to have buckled the leather straps over her left bracer and gauntlet, though not perfectly. The fit was snug but not particularly tight.

"Ya think that'll do it?" he asked as he continued staring at the straps.

Cecilia continued to hold her arm out with her fingertips resting on his shoulder pauldron, letting the weight of the shield sit on the sand. "It isn't perfect, but it will do for now."

She flexed her fingers for a moment and Khujand began to wonder why she was still holding her arm out if the job was satisfactory. Slowly, she swung her arm back down. The shield seemed to hold vertically, and he marveled at how her shoulder didn't get tired from carrying it around. A few thousand years of practice - it was still difficult to wrap his head around, that she was literally twelve thousand years old yet was still so youthfully attached to the world - obviously helped her get used to it. He was so busy staring down at her arm that he was taken aback when she turned to face him fully, not stepping backward. He froze in place, worried that stepping away would seem rude but definitely feeling awkward again with her so close to him.

"Thank you for listening," she said plainly as she looked him right in the eye, not allowing him to escape into himself. "I mean it. Letting all that out to someone who knows how it feels to hate yourself...to hate yourself justifiably...feels better than I thought."

He pursed his lips as he tried to shove the words in his brain down to his tongue. They were sharing body heat again and she showed no intention of removing herself from his personal space. They had leaned close each other after they shared their stories, but that had finished and they were just standing there now. Shouldn't this be weird?

"Yeah, um, ya arm felt tense when I was helpin' ya with tha shield." No, wait, he chastised himself inside. That means you were feeling up her arm, you creep.

_She asked you to help, _the deeper voice within his brain proposed. _You were doing what she asked._

"Theramore was a horrible experience for me, no matter how briefly I was there," her face straining a bit as she said it. "My first few weeks in Booty Bay, as I said, were alright at first. But that old port in the marshes..."

She gulped visibly as she spoke, pursing her own lips now as she continued to stare straight into him. "...I feel bad for what happened with Theramore's loss as I would for any other place with civilians, but remembering still leaves me irritated for a while."

He nervously though of raising his hand to rub the back of his head as an excuse to look away for a moment, then realized that she was standing too close for him to move his elbow in such a direction without brushing up against her. Why was she standing so close to him now?

_Why do you feel the need to ask?_

That doesn't help you smartass inner voice, he thought.

At a loss for anything else to do to lower his heart rate, he tried talking more. "I'm...well, maybe I was wrong for pushin' ya ta continue. I feel bad knowin' that I made ya tense now."

Her smile wasn't ear to ear, but it was wide enough that she couldn't suppress it. She was infectious - not just her smile, but all of her - and he couldn't help but smile back sheepishly despite not knowing why.

"I told you, I want to talk. I want to share. Even if it's stressful to bring some of this stuff back up, I need to do it." The sadness appeared to be gone from her eyes at least momentarily, replaced by visible stress from the Theramore story as well as a legitimate warmth. "But...perhaps that was enough for one night. We'll still have more time here to reminisce and catch up over the next few days," she said sincerely as thought they had been friends when they last met rather than enemy soldiers.

She chuckled lightly when she saw the consternation on his face. Her voice was deep but in a womanly way, and to him, it sounded as though it would be sultry no matter what she tried to do. "What's eating at you?" she asked him with some measure of amusement.

He shook his head as he realized he had been examining Cecilia's eyes again. "Oh! Uh, nothin' really," he stuttered in surprise at nothing in particular. "It's just...I guess it does make sense logically, like ya said. I mean, it makes sense logically that we could meet again. I already met a few people I knew from tha old days here, adventurers like us. But they weren't tha types I'd have anythin' in common with..." His voice trailed off as he noticed she was hanging on his every word; it was both flattering and invasive at the same time. "It's just funny how that works, right? We share more than we might've thought. Now we meet again after almost...well, eight years, right?"

She continued to look up at him - she was Kiul's height, and didn't have to look up that much - and he knew she was trying to peer into him again. "Eight years..." she said with the tone of her voice dropped.

Khujand almost flinched as he felt something pulling at his left arm. Glancing downward, he saw that Cecilia had reached up with her right hand to give the raptor feathers fastened over his bicep a tug. She held the feathers daintily between her index finger and thumb, though he could sense the tight tension in her hand as she strained. In a flash, he looked back up, almost dying of embarrassment upon the realization that she probably saw him looking. Why is she staring at him like before? She heard his story and learned who he really is; isn't her-

_Shut up. Stop thinking._

What? Did his subconscious actually protrude into his conscious with an order?

"I'm glad we met here, again," she whispered - no, said in a normal speaking voice - as she retained her grip on the feathers. "It was during one of the few moments when I wasn't blasted on the east side of Booty Bay that I heard talk from other panhandlers of the executions in Orgrimmar. They mentioned Garot'jin, which was still you back then, and I guess you could say I was disappointed."

He tried to pretend that the tugging sensation at leather band with the raptor feathers wasn't tightening, but he could feel it as though his entire arm were being moved. The lightheaded feeling just wouldn't go away.

"Cecilia..." he whispered, unsure of what else to say as his body remained paralyzed by her. His ears felt too hot.

"Yes?" she replied slowly, the smile from earlier never having left her face. Her lips remained slightly parted as though she wanted to say something else, but she didn't.

"Ggggrrrrraaaaa!"

The hiss from between the trees caused them both to jump, though not quickly enough to move out of the way of the lumpy, misshapen mass that knocked them both back.

"Look out!" she shouted just a few seconds too late as a twisted appendage slammed into her tower shield. She hadn't enough warning to properly brace herself, but she held, allowing the force of the blow to knock her back a few yards while keeping her feet and shield firmly planted in the sand.

The hideous figure appeared to be a sickly grey color from the torso down, though it was difficult to tell at the speed with which it moved. There appeared to be clothing and at least six appendages, but there was no head visible.

Slashing downward, his glaive sliced clean through a long green appendage that seemed to be writhing around in the air. It was thick, perhaps half a foot in diameter, but was soft like jelly. A liquid that was a lighter shade of green than the appendage itself splattered out of the wound and the limb fell to the ground, still writhing and curling up like an earthworm.

At the same time, a grey limb with a joint in it reached back and raked itself across Khujand's left shoulder, scraping his pauldron harmlessly but also cutting the flesh where his neck met his shoulder with what appeared to be claws at the end of the limb. More startled than hurt, he pulled himself backward. The awkward angle caused one of his feet to slip into the sand, and he staggered back even further to avoid falling straight down in front of the creature.

With twitching, jerky movements, the monster began staggering toward him as he fell back, not even bothering to rotate away from where Cecilia had been just a moment ago. It seemed to have no definite head, frontside or sensory organs yet it could obviously tell that he had not yet regained his balance. His mind was still stuck in the tender moment he was just sharing with someone he never thought he would see again, and his aggressive side seemed to be taking a nap.

It was just then that he saw something gleam in the moonlight. With a speed like nothing he had ever seen, a stunning mixture of silver and purple slid by the monster horizontally, knocking it sideways as more of the light green liquid spilled out from its side. There was no shriek, though had the creature a mouth there most certainly would have been.

Rearing back from an incredible blow was Cecilia standing tall, glaive held back and ready, shield held sideways in front of her, a sly smirk on the lower half of her face with her old-style huntress helmet covering the upper half. Her long, azure blue ponytail almost seemed to elegantly wave in the air behind her despite there being no wind. Any doubts Khujand had about this warrior princess in front of him being one of the most incredible and majestic sights he had ever laid eyes on were swept away.

The monster crouched down on two grey legs that appeared to have humanoid feet and knees that were twisted in unnatural directions. The muddy and bloody pants it was wearing ripped at the joints a little bit more, and the mass of green appendages and a single grey one sprouting from what appeared to be the top of a humanoid torso flung back in Khujand's direction.

Steely, fearless eyes stared down at the creature as Cecilia brought up her shield and raised her glaive arm. Every movement she made was sweeping and graceful, as though it had all been rehearsed over the past eon. The monster leapt at her and she leaned forward, shield at the ready…

…only to be knocked over in an ineffective heap.

"What tha hell?"

The monster's entire body crashed into her tower shield, causing the lower part to swing down as he clearly heard one of the leather straps coming unbuckled with the force of the collision. The bottom half of her shield pivoted and the edge banged against Cecilia's left shinguard, depriving her of half of her footing. The monster's body continued sailing forward, pushing her left arm downward as both its and the shield's weight dragged her down, and she allowed herself to squat backward and fall to the sand in order to avoid having the creature drag her forward and headfirst into its tentacles.

"I got it!" she shouted despite having clearly been dazed and jolted.

She landed flat on her back, her feet just barely tucked up underneath the bottom edge of her heavy shield as it drove into the sand. The monster, seemingly dazed, fell on top of her shield as she dragged it with the single strap and held it over her body protectively. Her control of the shield was weak, but adequate enough to hold the confused creature on top of it as the legs and appendages squirmed in an attempt to regain its footing.

Stupefied for a moment, Khujand winced and snapped back to the present, instinctively raising his fel glaive above his head with both hands and lunging forward. Folding in half as he tucked in his midsection, he brought one end of his long blade down onto what appeared to be the creature's back.

His stab connected, and the glaive pierced what could have been the monster's back or front, pushing itself all the way through the soft, squishy body. The blade exited from the opposite side with such a force that Khujand didn't even realize Cecilia's shield was below the creature's body until his blade jutted against that, too.

It was completely uncoordinated. His glaive poked her shield just as she had planted both feet on the ground, tugged up against the single buckle of her shield and dug her right hand into the sand. She pushed up, lifting the weight of herself, her armor, her shield and the bloated monster at the same time that the force of his blow connected. Her shield was shoved down when she least expected it, and the top edge slammed against her helmet so hard that had her forehead not been protected, she would have been rendered unconscious. She was knocked down on her back again, seeing stars - and not just the ones in the sky.

"Khujand what the fuck!"

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

Before he even realized it, one of the tentacle-like appendages had wrapped around the arcanite bracer on his right forearm, trying to pull him down into what appeared to be the creature's writhing maw. Panicking, Khujand stuck his glaive even further into the creature's body as he leaned back, planting his feet in the sand and arching away from both the monster and Cecilia as he straddled the melee tenuously.

She slid her right elbow on the ground trying to angle herself up as the creature's remaining appendages swung out ineffectively at both the top of her shield and Khujand's head. The weight of the monster, held in place by Khujand's glaive sticking through its body and pivoting on the top of her shield like a fulcrum, prevented her from getting up.

Before either of them could communicate with one another, one of the several appendages lashed out and wrapped itself around his right bicep, now pulling him down by two appendages attached to his right arm. He was far too strong to be moved, but he was also unfocused, confused and unable to tap into any sort of killer instinct after hours of them pouring their hearts out to each other. The creature couldn't pull him down, but he couldn't pull it up without having it latch onto his face.

"Pull back!" she shouted from underneath both of them.

Instead of pulling away – his back was already arched – Khujand tried pulling downward, his glaive slicing an even longer cut into the creature's body. It rose slightly, and Cecilia was _almost_ able to move forward into a sitting position. The grey appendage reached around her shield, battering her hauberk with its clawed, grey stump. She held firm, its spikes unable to pierce her plate armor. Sacrificing what little ground she had gained, she swung upward and cut the appendage down the middle with her glaive, falling again onto the back of her shoulder blades in the process. The grey appendage was now forked, still thrashing at her but without any significant force.

"It's slippin'!" he shouted as he arched less and moved forward, trying to keep his glaive imbedded in the monster's body.

It moved more of its weight onto her shield as she fell, keeping her pinned to the sand. The various wiggling appendages all seemed to move independent of each other, every one of them moved by a unique 'intelligence' as Khujand's left foot skidded through the sand to keep his leverage over the monster while still resisting the two tentacles pulling on his right arm.

"Create some space!" she ordered him from the bottom of the awkward Sandwich of Futility™. "I need more space between me and my shield!"

Falling into a sort of hierarchy under the much more experienced fighter, he pulled back again and tried to slice further upward with his glaive into the beast that would not die. Its light green 'blood' was seeping all over the shield now and it jerked its violent body further up as though it felt no pain. Just as the blade started to slip out, he stabbed downward again, pinning the monster to her shield to prevent it from eating his brains while also preventing her from getting up.

"That's not creating space!" she hissed in frustration.

"If I pull up, it'll get loose and break free!"

And so they sat for another minute, neither of them able to break the stalemate. If Khujand pulled back more, Cecilia could rise and create the leverage she needed to swing up at the monster flopped down like an immovable object on her shield. But if he pulled back, it could start to break free, moving away from her striking distance anyway and pulling his arm toward the putrid green blob from whence the tentacles sprouted. If he leaned into it and stabbed deeper with his blade, the creature was pinned safely to her shield, unable to reach either his head and body above or her unarmored jaw, thighs and upper arms below. But the more he leaned down, the more strongly she was pinned at the bottom of the sandwich, unable to use her own blades. It was confounding for him, infuriating for her and immeasurably frustrating for them both.

"Cut deeper into its upper half!"

"But it's gettin' loose-"

"GODDESS DAMNIT GROTY JUST DO WHAT I'M TELLING YOU TO DO I'M A THOUSAND TIMES MORE EXPERIENCED AT THIS THAN YOU ARE!"

With the monster pinned down, he was able to pause and look down at her enraged eyes like a wounded puppy. That she was infinitely more experienced than him was obvious to them both; but to hear her speak to him like that, almost as though she were blaming the ambush on him, hurt him. To hear her use his old name, a name so abhorrent to his ears, nearly destroyed him inside. He tried to rationalize it - in addition to hand tremors, hyperirritability was also a symptom of a recovering addict - but it didn't lessen the sting.

Trusting in her command despite his hurt, he pumped his glaive in and out of the wound as he gradually sliced upward toward the top. The creature planted one of its feet – there were definitely humanoid toes there – in front of Khujand's own left foot and near the flapping, shredded 'arm' that she had cut up the middle earlier.

"It's gettin' up!"

"Hold still!"

With her right elbow propped up in the sand again, she jutted forward with only a minimal amount of force and stabbed the leg with one of the three blades of her triangular glaive. It pierced the appendage and tore through to the other side, and she slowly began pushing in and out as she cut down toward the foot. The monster lifted the leg up, and she pulled it back down with a flex of her triceps, laying flat on her back and cutting without being able to see adequately.

"Kick the back of its knee! Now!"

He did he was told, stomping the mutilated leg out and with a snap, it split like the arm. Green juice poured out and mixed with the sand as the monster lost its bearings. With one uninjured leg and a tentacle flopping on her shield and two more tentacles wrapped around his arm, he was able to pull his long, double-bladed glaive half a foot out of the wound and pull down, prying the monster's body up.

Cecilia scooted out from under them, drawing her shield away and sitting up as Khujand dragged the crippled monstrosity across the sand. From her sitting position, she sliced off the rest of the tentacles with clean swipes as he stomped on the monster's lower body to keep it in place. Digging the side of her shield into the sand for support, she leaned forward with her glaive and dealt the death blow to the green blob at the top of the torso, finally ending it.

Khujand dropped to one knee and clung to his own glaive sticking up out of the corpse as Cecilia fell back down to her elbow and leaned her head back, the two of them panting for a long time as the waning adrenaline left both of them shaken and weak despite the fight having been more clumsy than taxing.

Still focused on the ground, he finally spoke as he stood up. "That was…that was one hell of a weird fight, right?" he chuckled. Laughing at their situation helped him to recover mentally. As bizarre as it all was, it almost felt like a fitting end to what had been a perfect night.

He couldn't have been more shocked when he looked down to see her lips stiff and her face pulled taught into an angry glare. She still looked mad like she had been when yelling commands at him.

"Here, uh…let's get dusted off," he stuttered as he felt the coming storm.

He extended his hand to help her stand up. She glared at his hand and then back at him before scooting back some more and stumbling once before standing up on her own.

"Fuck!" she screeched into the night air.

Khujand jumped as she tossed her shield to the ground with a metal clang. It wouldn't have been heard outside of the clearing, but it was the anger with which she flung it that scared him.

Cecilia turned her back to him, one hand on her hip as she seemed to brush sweat from behind her ear with the other. Not knowing what else to do, he dropped his glaive in the sand and stood empty handed.

What was wrong? The evening had gone so well. She had asked him to share his experiences, to understand how she felt, to listen to her story without judgment or pretension. She had danced with him, something her people didn't normally do with strangers, and they were able to laugh at their own misfortunes to an extent. Her shaking increased and he didn't know if it was all in her head, from the receding adrenaline or from her obvious anger.

Her shield was still on the ground. He thought about picking it up and offering it to her. He thought twice.

"Hey…what's wro-"

"Shhh!"

Slowly, she turned to him, her lips pursed so tightly that he thought they would go numb. What was she thinking?

"I TOLD you to create more space." Her stare at him was hard and all the warmth from just a few moments ago was gone.

_Don't argue._

"I…well, I tried, but it was getting loose," he answered sheepishly. Logic dictated that she was wrong and that her order wasn't practical; she couldn't see from behind her shield, and he knew better being that he had a good vantage point to watch the enemy's movement. But he couldn't speak; to do so would feel disrespectful to a more experienced fighter, and her story about Theramore made it obvious to him that she wouldn't tolerate disrespect, real or imagined.

She looked away and closed her eyes for a moment, almost seeming like she was at a loss for words. It reminded him of the way people behaved when they wanted to be mad but didn't know the reason. "Learn to secure a shield to your comrade's arm properly," she muttered off to the side bitterly.

_Don't argue._

"Um…I will." It seemed like she was trying to blame him. It felt unfair, but he was more concerned with not upsetting her than defending himself.

Both hands were on her hips as she stood for a moment, unmovingly staring off to the side. Wishing he knew how to calm her down, he turned to face in the same direction. It felt like ages before she spoke, though it was likely just a minute.

Without turning back to him, she suddenly addressed him in a calm voice.

"This is the high road," she said. "This is your area to patrol."

_But it's easier if we do it together,_ his inner voice pleaded. It was normally his source of reason, yet now it sounded like it was lost.

"Alright," he answered.

"The low road is back down in the valley. That's my area to patrol."

_Let me help you!_

"Yeah."

He hadn't even realized that she had moved away until he heard metal clicking against metal. Spinning around, he saw that she had clipped her tower shield to a sort of carrier ridge on the back of her hauberk, now wearing the shield behind her.

"This is your area; you patrol it." There wasn't any type of emotion in her voice now.

"Okay."

_Not okay!_

"I will go back down to the valley, and I will patrol that."

Crestfallen, he looked down at the sand. "Alright."

After a few moments, she was gone, and he was left alone in the clearing wondering how he had managed to screw up what had been such a wonderful evening. His inner voice spoke to him weakly as he shuffled over to the boulder she had initially been sitting on when she followed him there, its normal logic and composure absent. He shoved it down, not wanting any of it.

"What a fool I've been," he whispered to himself absentmindedly as he turned around and sat down on the boulder. He massaged his face with his hands, leaving his chin to rest on his palms as he leaned forward.

It was one night, he tried to tell himself. It was a great night up until a few minutes ago, but it had been just a single good night and it wouldn't be the last good night in his life. He felt like he had connected with someone who was smart, funny, thoughtful, and who understood him. But it was just one night after having met her last in very unfortunate circumstances almost eight years ago. There is no reason for him to feel so strongly about this, about her.

He almost couldn't allow himself to think it from guilt and respect for Cecilia, but her shakes were as responsible for the slip up as he was. She was like a declawed tigress, the pride typical of night elves pushing her to search for something to blame. And there was no reason to storm off after one botched fight; surely, it must have been her hyperirritability as someone recovering from substance abuse that caused her to turn on him after having earlier been tugging him in close to-

"No," he mumbled, shaking his head. "Ya just imagined it. Ya were just bein' ya stupid self again."

In vain, he tried to put the whole experience out of his mind as he sat there in front of the wellspring, gazing up at the stars in the night sky.

"Just help these people," he told himself. "Protect tha camp like ya said ya would, escort them ta Beastwatch and get tha samples ta those druids, and be on ya way."

The lie was almost palatable enough to swallow. It would certainly have been more comfortable to chalk it up as one good evening of venting and a nice dance that he would remember fondly for a period before it disappeared into his memory.

But try as he might, he could only amble about on the high road, pretending to scan for more plant monsters that never came as he acqueised to the swirl of emotions inside and admitted that he couldn't pinpoint what exactly he was feeling. It was easier to try to shut everything off and pretend he was interested in counting the cobblestones pounded into the road and the leaves in the canopy hanging over the road.

Morning was only another hour in coming, and this time when a light shone through the dark, it was the rising sun - a real, actual light. Khujand focused on what was real and in front of him, hoping the dream would slip away and be lost in time.


	12. The Short Trek

The large jungle troll slept on his side like a rock, the late afternoon sun that was trying to invade the tent having no effect on him. Just to be safe, he had kept his undershorts on while sleeping this time, not wanting a repeat of the embarrassing incident the day before.

It was one of the most comfortable sleeps he had in a long time. Normally, going to sleep was a stressful time for him. The echoes of the people he had tortured at the Mor'shan jail returned to him then, but never to take their revenge; that would have made him feel as though he was atoning for his sins. No, they always returned in front of him in fear as they had before, always his hands covered in blood as he reached forward to tear at their flesh and slam them against the wall. He woke up almost every single morning hating himself all over again, questioning for the thousandth time why on Azeroth his attorney Lorthiras would have thought that Khujand, of all people, would deserve this second chance.

But not today. Comparatively speaking, he dreamt very little that day, or at least he didn't remember most of his dreams. It started in southern Ashenvale, as his dreams often did; either there or in the northern Barrens, though there were no screams this time. He was outdoors this time, standing on that same ledge tucked away from behind the long ditch between the hills. That same shallow ravine was below him, one of the few open spaces in the dense forest. That same canopy held still above, that same silence broken only by a handful of owls and crickets. And out in the distance, that hill…the same hill. The hill in the middle of the clearing, directly across from the ledge marking the outer boundary of Warsong territory. That break in the canopy was still positioned directly above, and the moon still shone those rays of its light – those exact same rays, not even similar looking ones – down onto that hill. Those particles still shone like wisps in the night, giving him that perfect view of that hill that exact distance away from that ledge. And atop that hill in that clearing, a light shone.

He could still see the shine even beneath the pinnacle. Even with that distance, it shone at him from that hill like when it had been up close. And as he stared, something changed. Time changed. The force faded from the shining light until it slowly began to disappear, fading away as it usually did at the end of the dream. And still, even after being drained away, the knowledge that at one point he had wanted to be free from his old life, that he truly felt remorse, signaled some strange form of hope. He wondered how, after all the innocent blood spilled, the hope could still remain. To truly be free from guilt and blame didn't seem possible; it was childish. And yet the hope shone through the pain.

It was one of the most comfortable nights he had in a long time, and he hated it. Almost falling into a lucid dream, he semi-consciously drowned the thoughts away and forced himself to remember the bad. Remembering the good was more painful than he had imagined. He willed the light away along with the trees, and forced himself back down into the dark.

* * *

"Mister Khujand? Are you awake?"

"Mmrrrrrrr…bacon and eggs…"

"Mister Khujand, we have a problem." Sounded like a man, with a draenic accent. Kiul. Yeah, that was his name.

The half-asleep mohawk guy tried to roll up. "Huh…what…whashyu want me do?"

"Listen, just take a minute to get yourself situated," Kiul urged. "We think Vegnus and Sandash are lost."

With that, he took his leave but left the flap to the tent open, allowing the light to shine in. Khujand had gotten plenty of sleep and waking up didn't feel so bad. Waking up to the news that he now had to go on a search and rescue mission felt kind of bad. Already sensing what was coming, he suited up with all his gear before exiting. He had a feeling he would need it.

Stepping out into the fresh air, it was apparent that sunset was still a few hours away. This was technically earlier than his shift was supposed to start. He had a sense that there would be a miniature adventure that day when all he wanted was to patrol the camp of kind strangers and promptly get back to salvaging what he could of his life.

"Bah..." he murmured. Willing himself to think positively, he strode over to the three sitting logs next to his new companions. He had accepted Zorena's quest in Gorgrond, in part, because he felt listless and without purpose at Thunder Pass; perhaps a small excursion today would be what he needed to lighten his mood.

Anushka was already handing him some breakfast wrapped in a hand towel, more boiled root vegetables with the meat of some type of small bird. He truly would have been lost if he hadn't met these people; as tough as he might be, they were resourceful and obviously used to living off the land as they traveled. For all his strength, Khujand realized, he wouldn't even be able to feed himself without the group of three draenei, two night elves, a dwarf and an orc peon.

"Thank ya, Anushka," he said, remembering to be polite. Among his own people and even with the orcs, thanks weren't normally given for things so basic. These were outsiders, though, and he couldn't let their kindness go unnoticed.

"Oh, you're welcome!" she beamed far too giddily. "I was cookings it with your spices!" They had already established that yesterday, he thought, but perhaps she was just surprised that a troll would thank her for something.

He sat expectantly in front of Yaromira and Kiul and removed his gloves as he ate with his hands, assuming that if the problem was big enough to wake him up there wouldn't be time to waste. Irien sat down right next to him without saying a word; she was much friendlier when she wasn't threatening to shoot him in the face. Cecilia was, thankfully, still asleep though he wasn't sure if the two of them had spoken about him as they switched shifts last night.

The thought of anyone else knowing of the embarrassing end to what had been so wonderful was almost enough to make him stupidly attempt to reach Beastwatch on his own. He had only recently been out of prison, and it was only by chance that his attempt to make friends that night at the tavern at Thunder Pass weeks ago had worked. Khujand feared people, he admitted to himself, but not physically; in terms of violence, very little could threaten him short of a gang of ogres (literally) or an entire battalion of soldiers. And the Loa knew that, while serving his own prison sentence for his war crimes, Khujand had suffered his fair share of corporal punishment. The amount of lashings he'd suffered along with psychological torture such as when the prison guard locked him in the toilet as solitary confinement for a week, all of it drawn out across six years, had proven to him that he was durable in terms of his body.

Khujand's mind was weak, though. His psyche was fragile. He hated being humiliated or embarrassed in social situations and aside from those he could view solely as platonic friends like Patina or Irien, he was afraid of women despite finding them fascinating. Why, he did not know; gender differences were exaggerated anyway, as he well knew. There was something else he couldn't quite explain behind his fear, and it had reared its ugly head the night before. The thought of Cecilia berating him and storming off as though the hours and hours they'd spent sharing their life stories with each other didn't even matter...that hurt more than anything that could have been done to him with a gun or a blade.

Noticing that Irien was chatting directly with him, Khujand snapped out of his moping and forced himself to answer, taking some solace in the loudmouth's somewhat mean-spirited sense of humor when discussing people she didn't like at Highpass.

After some pleasantries he replied to with a mouth full of food and some small talk among the others, Yaromira, as the site manager and the big boss, began to review what had happened that had them all so worried.

"This is only our first day of full work out here, and we still have another full day tomorrow and we've already lost contact with two of our people," she explained calmly. "Vegnus took Sandash to survey a bramble patch we hadn't noticed before, and now we haven't heard from them in almost four hours. There haven't been any smoke signals or anything."

Khujand finished shoveling all of his breakfast into his mouth, wiping his hands off with the clean edges of the towel. With a full stomach, the prospect of impressing them with a task that would be simple enough but probably seemed dangerous to this group of mostly non-adventurers was more appealing.

"We need Irien here to defend the camp for another hour or two and Cecilia doesn't see particularly well during the daytime," Yaromira continued in a removed, professional tone. "You've had a long sleep and we were hoping that you have the energy to hike out to their location."

He stretched out his fingers as he fit his gloves back into place. "Just point me tha way and I'll get them back," he said with more than a little eagerness to get out of camp and clear his mind.

They rose, and Yaromira and Kiul described the path Vegnus and Sandash had taken. From the very far north end of the ledge they had camped on, the naturally cut between two rocky hills could be seen a few miles across the valley. Once he passed through, he would hug the western edge of the rocks, avoiding the patch of greener trees to the east and marching up a rather long slope of sand-like rocks. The briar patch was up there, and the two lost travelers had stated their intent of surveying and guesstimating the exact dimensions of the patch that afternoon. Why on Azeroth the size of a briar patch in west Gorgrond would help them ship mail across the region was beyond Khujand, but that wasn't his problem; all he was concerned about now was the supposed hour and fifteen minute hike both going to and then coming from the patch.

* * *

Out beyond the miniature forest – Yaromira and Kiul had made an understatement when they referred to it as a "patch of trees" – the sun had started to descend in the sky. It had been about an hour since Khujand had been hiking, and after having a few days rest the walk felt much better. It was a world of difference from how he felt back when he had first arrived in Gorgrond. He had been stranded, injured, exhausted and without food or shelter. Thoughts of running off on his own quickly disappeared and even made him feel bad; he could deal with the awkward silences around Cecilia if it meant giving something back to this surprisingly tolerant group of mostly Alliance members.

Being left alone with his thoughts had been the norm for him during his first few weeks on Draenor, but after finally making friends back at Thunder Pass, he had begun to enjoy the company of others. These long silences weren't his preference, especially in times like this when his inner voice – his conscience, his subconscious, the internal monologue which had always seemed to steer him in the right direction – made itself noticeably absent.

The questions in his head were the type he wished he wouldn't ask. But as the type of person who would often crawl inside himself for comfort, his own thoughts were inescapable, whether they were conscious or subconscious. What lied deep in his unconscious was, on the other hand, locked away unless he was angry and most of it was too disturbing for either of the other sides of his mind to even acknowledge. Still, what did manage to float up to the surface was uncomfortable that day.

"Don't remember hangin' on ta somebody else's words like that," he mumbled to himself. "I can remember every last detail from every story she told."

No comment from the haughty, typically scolding inner voice.

He snorted, his test having failed. Nothing.

By the time he reached the slope with sand-like rock, he could see the tracks. The little pebbles were all piled up against a ridge, forming a sort of natural ramp which would have allowed the two lost travelers to scale the ridge. It lead about thirty feet up and the two sets of tracks were quite clear. Khujand took care to walk a good distance away from them, leaving their tracks as well as his own; one could never be too safe, and in the event that he was also lost the others would need a way to find all three of them.

On top of the ridge, the footsteps in the rocky, sandy ground were still clear. How the landscape here in Gorgrond had produced so many wide, flat expanses when Frostfire Ridge was so uneven was beyond him. It was almost like the earth here at been pounded flat by eons of heavy weights being dragged over it, yet right over in the next region it had been smashed into rugged, uneven pieces.

"There ya go," he hummed upon catching his first glimpse of the briar patch.

The tracks continued in to the patch, between all the thorny bushes and tall, leafless spiny trees. It was quite a sight to behold: the ground beneath him was composed entirely of unblemished white sand, the mountains in the distance were all brick red mountains and the light brown trees looked like torture devices growing out of the ground. If only he could have bought one of those gnomish portable permanent mirrors they call 'cameras.' Kuma would never get tired of looking at a place like this.

As he pushed on, he found the paths between the briars and trees winding and nearly indistinguishable. The sand was so soft, however, that he'd been able to pick up the tracks of three separate pairs of feet. One was steady and sure like a dwarf and the other was heavy and plodding like an orc. The third wasn't like anything he'd ever seen. The frantic cries didn't give him a good feeling about that third pair, either.

"Help!"

"Somebody!"

Two familiar voices could faintly be heard over the trees, shouting frantically.

Khujand picked up the pace, never really being one for stealth; it was rare that whatever was hiding around a dark corner was as scary as he was, anyway. He ran and even knocked over some of the briars, following the sound of the voices as his adrenaline surged in anticipation of conflict.

"I hear someone running!" That was definitely Vegnus.

"It's horrible! It's a foul demon spawn from the depths of Auchindoun!" There was Sandash.

Both were speaking Common and sounded as though they had seen a ghost of a demon summoned by a ghost of a warlock-

_Lame._

There you are, jackass, he thought as his inner voice finally reared its ugly voice.

Stepping over a tall briar bush, Khujand could hear something foul growling at his companions now. With his feeling of isolation, he was able to pull up some of that aggression from the encounter with the ogres earlier in the week. Taking hold of a smooth, spineless portion of a high branch, he vaulted over another tree and several more bushes, landing about two dozen yards ahead in the thorny maze. The commotion became louder now.

"Abandon all hope, ye that enter here!"

"No, don't abandon hope! Come save us!"

Dodging around all the spikes and needles was becoming easier and it seemed as though the path was now leading toward a clearing among all the spikes. Through the trees, he could spy the two frightened friends now, having managed to scale an exceptionally tall tree without injuring themselves. Vegnus was up near the top, clinging on for dear life as he held on to his telescope thingy that Khujand found intimidating and a long metal cylinder used for carrying their maps. Sandash was a bit lower, having propped himself in the middle of three thick branches. They saw him, but didn't give his position away.

Through the bushes and sharp tumbleweeds, Khujand saw whatever had chased them up the tree though not with good visibility. It was about the same height as Vegnus which would mean it was less than half of his own height, yet somehow was even wider. It was bipedal and hunched over, with no head and what seemed to be a short tail.

"Screw hidin'," he said out loud as he stepped out into the clearing. Behind the tree was a sharp jutting piece of red rock shaped like a knife and reaching about twenty feet into the air, while behind that was another valley hundreds of meters below. They were on the edge of a cliff.

Vegnus and Sandash's tree was still about thirty yards away from Khujand himself. The dwarf's rifle was on the ground, probably dropped as they ran for safety. It was a perplexing sight. Dwarves and orcs might not normally get along, but if there's one thing both races had in common it's that they're all born into this world with an axe in each hand. Fighting was in their blood; what could have scared them so much?

As it turned to see him, he was able to get a better view of the mongrel that had chased the two companions. Its back was made of overlapping sheets of a metallic substance, like a bipedal Dark Iron armadillo. It had no noticeable neck, but there was a flat face sprouting from between the animals shoulders and above its stubby arms. Its eyes were huge and its mouth was large enough to swallow an entire head. Green drool fell from its lips as it babbled in what was neither language nor growling.

"Watch out," warned Vegnus, "it rolls into a ball an' then tries te run over ye!"

Almost on cue, the creature rolled into a ball and sped in his direction.

Slowly, Khujand's scowl transformed into an evil, excited grin as he got an idea.

"I can't look!" exclaimed Sandash, "but I can't stop looking!"

Acting as though he had all the time in the world, Khujand stretched his back as he reached for his bone club, pulling it down and letting it dangle at his side for a moment. Turning sideways toward the rolling ball of living metal, he spread his feet shoulder width apart and balanced his body weight between them. He straightened his back fully and bent his knees a bit as he kept the striking end of the club just an inch or so off the ground.

"Khujand, it's coming right for ye!"

"It's coming right for yoooo!"

The rolling ball was picking up speed and Khujand breathed deeply as he raised the club back in a circular motion and lowered it down again, successfully lowering his heart rate.

"It'sall in tha hips," he whispered to himself.

With lightning speed now, the metal ball rolled on a collision course with his shins and kneecaps, the terrified pair in the tree shaking at the thought of their savior being smushed.

"Fore!" he cried out as he raised the club up and then swung it back down in a circular motion with a twist of his entire body, just at the last second.

_::DING::_

The two formerly lost travelers stared in awe as their tormenter sailed almost the entire way back to their tree, all two hundred pounds of it having been knocked away by a golf swing of Khujand's kodo femur as though it weighed nothing.

Hitting the sand near the tree, it bounced one time and rolled with an almost equal amount of momentum as when it was trying to run over the jungle troll, smashing through another patch of briars and rolling right off the cliff behind them.

"Reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee…"

Vegnus and Sandash had a perfect view as they watched what had seemed like an indestructible abomination sail like a pebble to the valley below, shattering open into a mess of metal shards, chunks of flesh and lots and lots of blood.

Feeling rather pleased with himself and a little bit smug, Khujand chained the bone club back to the strap on his back and moved to help down what had just become two friends for life.

"That was the most amazing thing I've ever seen!" gushed Sandash with starry eyes. "How did you do that?"

"Uh…I hit it hard?" Khujand replied as he scratched his head in sincere confusion.

As he climbed down from the tree, Vegnus collected his surveying tools in his backpack and leaned his rifle against his shoulder. "Nonsense, ye got some fine golfing skills there. I'm sad ye two are Horde, otherwise I'd bring ye to play some holes in the Wetlands when we get back home."

The sun was descending even more as the three of them looked around warily, searching for any more assailants. "We need te start a quick fire here, just te send some smoke signals an' letem all know that we're okay," Vegnus added. "There's no need for anyone else te come trekking out here."

Glad that he had finally shown such a welcoming group of people that he had more to offer than spices and olive oil, Khujand proceeded to search for a spineless patch on one of the nearby tree trunks. Confident that he wouldn't be poked, he wrapped his arms around the ten-foot-high tree without so much as saying a word to his now perplexed new friends.

"Um, Koojad, what are you doing?" Sandash asked with a finger on his lower lip.

Heaving with all his weight, Khujand yanked back on the tree until the roots at the opposite side were ripped up out of the ground, sand being tossed up in the air. Shifting his grip to another spineless patch further up the length of the tree, he stepped back with one foot and shifted himself over to it, dragging the rest of the tree's roots out with him.

"There," he huffed," is ya firewood for tha signals."

His two smaller friends stared at the uprooted tree for a moment, then back to the jungle troll who suddenly felt sheepish again. Instead of successfully showing off, Khujand realized that he'd likely just made himself look like a maniac.

* * *

As the sun started to set, Sandash began carrying a lit torch made from a piece of the uprooted tree wrapped in some bandages he had in his belt pouch. It wasn't dark quite yet, but they wanted to be ready for once it was. They wound back from whence they'd come, following their own tracks backward as they slipped down the sandy-rocky slope. The three of them chatted lightly but for the most part, it was a quiet hike back until they reached the miniature forest.

"Don't tell the two elves that ye ripped an entire tree out of the ground for one set of smoke signals," Vegnus warned. "They won't like it."

"It was still funny though, right?" Khujand snickered uncomfortably as he feigned mischeviousness. It felt fake, but he didn't know how else to interact after having embarrassed himself for a second time in the past few days.

"Oh, I'm not criticizing! Just a friendly reminder is all." If Vegnus sensed that Khujand's reaction was phony, he didn't let it show. The three continued to walk in silence, though Sandash began rubbing one hand with the other as though something was wrong.

Before they could even reach the pass after the mini-forest, a sense of unease set over the group.

"Hey, what happened to the crickets?" Sandash asked.

Vegnus slowed down, glowering around the flat, open area with the long, rocky hill to their right. "The air is too still."

"Psssst."

The three men stopped dead in their tracks. In the early evening dark, someone, or something, was whispering to them. They looked all around, but found nothing. At first.

"Come on guys," Sandash whined, "that isn't funny."

"Wasn't me," Khujand murmured as he pulled out his glaive and began slouching.

Vegnus' eyes shifted back and forth menacingly. One wouldn't have guessed that he was a civilian and a poor shot by the hard look on his face. "We're being watched," he whispered in a voice that suddenly sounded a bit gruff and almost like a regular dwarf. "Hey...there."

Out from the pitch black shadows, a short figure stood in front of them, forcing some kind of power play as the three adults became visibly unnerved. The boy was all alone in a dangerous place, standing as though he had nothing to fear, which in and of itself made him creepy as hell. The child walked toward them, slowly and purposefully, its movement like that of an adult. He was totally unafraid and didn't seem to be in any particular hurry. Wearing nothing but tattered, worn shorts, his ribs poked out and he stared the men down as though they were the ones with something to fear.

"Oh no," Sandash whispered so low that the two could barely here him. "It's a bogeychild that's going to eat our souls!"

Behind the child, several more figures emerged from the dark, surrounding the troll, dwarf and orc from Azeroth as they had their backs to the rocky hills. The figures were larger than Vegnus but smaller than Sandash, and they caused an odd clacking sound when they walked. They didn't look aggressive, but had no apprehension over approaching the three at all.

"Ah Snark, where are ya when I need ya?" Khujand grumbled. They were cornered; there was no need to whisper anymore.

As the dozen or so people entered the circle of light from Sandash's torch, the hinged skulls they wore on their faces gleamed in the night. Vegnus and Sandash moved back behind Khujand as the three realized they were encircled by a tribe of the native Laughing Skull orcs.

* * *

**A/N: This seemed like a good place to cut off, though I am starting to miss Cecilia already. There's more of her to come in the next chapter...if these three can figure out what they're going to.**


	13. You Understand

**A/N: For those that use Deviant Art, there are a number of pictures of Cecilia and Khujand both, designed by the amazing and talented MischiArt. Look her up - she really brought the two to life the way I had imagined. Currently, I'm trying to figure out how to resize the images to replace my crappy MS Paint one for this story with one of her professional ones.**

**Also, Cecilia is back here. This story wouldn't be what it is were she to be absent for too long.**

* * *

The three companions stood, their backs to the rocky hills and about a dozen Laughing Skull orcs surrounding them. Nobody was moving, nobody was speaking, nobody was doing anything. The entire area was now silent save the crackle of Sandash's torch as the standoff dragged on, neither side willing to risk making the first move.

Khujand measured up the twelve orcs. If Vegnus was as poor a shot as the others had made him out to be, he couldn't be relied on to take any of the Laughing Skull out. Sandash was a peon and would probably be useless. The fact that the tribe appeared to have a child with them made him feel uneasy – it could mean that they weren't a war band, or it could mean that the kid was supposed to have his first battle that day. The orcs tended to keep their traditions to themselves, and even after primarily using their language instead of his own for so long Khujand didn't quite understand their various coming of age rituals.

He glanced over to Sandash for a moment, imagining that the peon was shapeshifting and melding until he turned into Khujand's armored, grizzled friend from Thunder Pass with an axe in one hand and a sword in the other. If Snark were there, the two of them could likely take out all dozen Laughing Skull unharmed. With these two, however, he couldn't count on his back being covered.

Realizing the gravity of the situation, Khujand put his hands in the air, slipping his glaive back into the clip of his back strap in the process. He took one methodical step forward and got down on one knee.

"Ye surrendering?!" Vegnus exclaimed more than asked.

"A real soldier knows when ta sheathe his arms," the jungle troll answered. "Sandash! Interpret!"

The squat, wide-eyed orc snapped is head in his supposed protector's direction. "Me?"

"Ya're the interpreter and cultural ambassador here," Khujand answered. "Use their dialect. Tell them we ain't hostile."

Poking his lower lip with his index finger like a giant toddler, Sandash hobbled out in front of the group with little hesitation. He spoke in Orcish but with an accent that was clicked and rhythmic. "We're just passing through! We seek your permission to continue our travels unmolested!"

"What's he saying?" Vegnus whispered at Khujand through his teeth.

"Exactly what he should be sayin', but in their way of talkin'."

All three companons jumped slightly as the Laughing Skull started to nod their heads in unison, the hinged skull masks they wore rattling loudly. One of them – a hunched over elder who wore a fur sash in addition to the loincloths like the rest of the group – stepped out front. Given her age and assertiveness, she was likely the denmother and could possibly have birthed the others – their ages were difficult to gauge given that none of the others were hunched over and they all covered their faces.

With one clawed finger, she pointed toward Vegnus. The dwarf's scowl disappeared quickly as his face drooped and his eyes grew almost as wide as Sandash's. Their interpreter didn't leave him to wallow in suspense.

"They want your gun, Vegnus," Sandash stammered.

The uniformed dwarf looked down at the rifle in his hands longingly. "Me gun? I paid so much fer it!"

Without turning his head, Khujand growled through clinched teeth. "How much wouldya pay for ya life, bossman?"

Reluctantly, Vegnus handed the rifle over to the matron. She looked it over for a moment before turning back to her grey-skinned group and rattling her skull mask in approval, the others following suit. Turning to walk away, the small clan didn't even acknowledge the three travelers. Khujand and Vegnus both relaxed, no longer feeling backed into a corner.

"I think we're off tha hook," muttered the jungle troll as he stood back up.

Sandash began acting manically. He took a few steps forward and looked from the clan to his friends back to the clan. As he gazed at alternate dimension versions of his people, there was a twinkle in his eye that was almost childlike. His hands shaking with excitement, he removed a coinpurse from his beltpouch and handed it to Vegnus and his torch to Khujand.

"I'm sorry, Mister Vegnus! I really am! But I…I've got to do this!" Sandash cried out.

Vegnus looked over his friend quizzically. "Do what?"

"Here, that's all the money you paid me plus what I earned back at Beastwatch! I don't need mediums of exchange anymore!"

Shocking the hell out of both his friends, Sandash gripped his trousers and with a single tug, ripped them clear off with a tearing noise.

"Ya better explain what ya doin' right now," Khujand said as he grimaced.

"Please don't judge me guys!" Sandash pleaded. "I was born on Azeroth but my parents always told me of how our family was originally Laughing Skull from way back. I have to!"

"Ya have ta _what_?"

Sandash ran toward the dispersing clan, yelling in their dialect again. "Wait!"

The hinged skull masks turned and were all focused on the green-skinned Azerothian orc as he tore of his peon tabard as well, suddenly wearing only his polka-dot underpants and a pair of boots.

"Take me with you!"

"Sandash!" Vegnus hissed quietly but urgently. "What! Are! Ye! Doooooiiiiiiiing!"

"Take me with you, Laughing Skull! I need to get in touch with my roots!"

The members of the clan looked to the denmother who looked back at the others. They all turned toward Sandash then, rattling their skulls in unison as the jolly green orc joined what very well could have been his grey-skinned ancestors on another timeline. The entire clan disappeared into the darkness, their newest member meshing into the rest of the dark figures until they all disappeared.

The dwarf and the troll stood in silence for the longest time – as seemed to be the habit of their entire travel group – just staring at the emptiness now in front of them. In slow motion and in unison, they both turned to face each other with their jaws gaping.

"What the hell just happened?"

* * *

Anushka was running back and forth on the ledge where the camp was situated, unsuccessfully willing herself to develop night vision and spy the missing friends she barely knew but – knowing her – would likely mourn as though the world were ending. The two elves stood at the edge and scanned the trees with their night vision as Yaromira and Kiul sat in front of the fire and tried to draw up contingency plans in case they really had lost their interpreter, a third of their hired muscle, the co-manager and his equipment.

"The others! The others!" Anushka rambled in her high-pitched voice as she flitted around the two more emotionally stable draenei. "This is no time to think about the workings!"

Ignoring her, Irien pointed to the valley. "I see Vegnus and Khujand," she said without looking at the others. "Sandash is gone."

"No! No oh why don't you can seeings him!"

Yaromira turned to her apoplectic employee, unable to force sympathy for the poor woman in her voice. "Calm down, we'll ask them when they get up here."

Vegnus was heard not too long after the pair was seen, both of them gut laughing at a story for which the others had no context.

"Bahahahaha! And then I said, hey mister smarty pants? Why don't ye take all that stolen tooth whitener and actually try te use it fer once!"

The wheezing laughter of the two returning members of the group in the absence of their third perplexed the others. Vegnus and Khujand both seemed unaware as they ascended the looping slope leading up to the ledge and approached the campfire.

"Vegnus, where is Sandash?" Yaromira demanded to know before anything else.

"Where is your gun?" Irien added.

Sighing, Khujand extinguished the torch and laid it down with some other supplies. "My shift technically started already. Vegnus, can ya fill them in while I start my patrol?"

The dwarf nodded and sat down, granting the troll his leave. "Let me tell all of ye how Sandash may have just had the greatest day of hes life." Making his way over to his personal travel bag, Vegnus ignored the odd stares of the others as he moved aside shoes, potatoes and a framed photograph of himself and an insane-looking gnoll jumping in the air and high fiving until he found a rather expensive-looking flute. Whipping his head around so quickly that the others jumped, Vegnus' eye were excessively wide and he had an overly-dramatic, fake serious look on his face.

"And I'd like te tell ye...through interpretive dance!"

Kiul was clapping like a muscly-armed child as the way-too-cheery dwarf started practicing different notes. Yaromira, Vegnus' slightly higher ranking counterpart, appeared less than pleased. "Vegnus, that's going to cause a lot of noise and possibly attract attention to the camp," she explained in the cordial and formal tone she often used.

All was lost as Anushka and Kiul already appeared consoled regarding Sandash' fate and had scooted closer for Vegnus' solo storytelling performance. Even Irien, who was still helping Cecilia strap on her plate armor, had her head crooked to watch the least-grizzled dwarf on Azeroth play a rousing, fast-paced tune as he wove a tale of skulls, crooked trees and probably golfing.

Khujand walked off toward his patrol on the high road, not even looking at Cecilia to see if she was looking back at him. Seeing those eyes would make him feel sad again, which wasn't what he needed at the moment.

* * *

Maintaining a decent pace wasn't difficult as he hurried over to the main paved road and series of beaten paths that composed his patrol area on the high road, though once he was out of sight of the camp he slowed down. The two and a half hours of hiking had left him winded and a light stroll that night sounded good to both his mind and his body.

He scanned the surrounding forest as he walked along the main road, trying to keep his wits about him in case another parasitic half-plant half-corpse monster attacked him. It was difficult to focus, as once he was alone he was no longer able to drown out his thoughts with conversation or laughter.

_It sure was nice to be able to say out loud what you've been through,_ his inner voice told him, trying to start a train of thought as it often did. _Someone who understood and didn't judge, patronize or sugarcoat._

"Nice," he mumbled to himself. "One time only. We shared. We listened. It's done."

_She didn't finish her story._

Khujand shook his head both at his subconscious' implication and the fact that he probably looked like a crazy person talking to himself in the woods like that. "She ain't gotta finish nothin'," he replied to the voice in his head, once again not realizing that he was talking out loud. "She owes me nothin' and already gave so much. I screwed it up and even if I hadn't, it was nothin'."

_Liar._

He sighed. "I was a moron for gettin' so attached to someone I just met."

_But you met her more than seven years ago._

"I don't remember that."

_Liar._

Turning a corner on the beaten path, Khujand realized that he had somehow found his way to the wellspring. Increasing his speed, he cursed himself for going that route as he took the path toward the valley in an attempt to get away from that clearing. Too many memories, and the fact that he had built up fond memories from only one night also made him feel like a sap. He hurried away, finding another path leading into another side of the forest. The dirt path was narrow, with the occasional fern spilling out over it. The canopy was low enough that he could probably reach up and touch it at some points. Despite his increasing pace, the voice just wouldn't give up or shut up.

_You felt better when she was talking._

"I can't identify with most of it. I never ran away ta find tha world, I just sat in prison."

_Yet you still finished her sentences and knew how she felt, even for the parts of her story you didn't know from experience._

He hrumphed. "It was nice. I'm thankful for it. Now it's over. Tha end."

_You don't want it to be over. You want her to talk more. You actually enjoy listening to her._

Khujand rounded another bend and closed his eyes for a moment, trying to think about golf putting that monster from earlier in an attempt to change the subject of his thoughts, though unsuccessfully.

He was shocked for the second time that night when he opened his eyes and almost bumped right into her.

"Gah!"

"Careful, soldier."

She was there. On the same path. Standing in front of him now. He did _not_ need that tonight. Of all the paths he could have patrolled at that exact moment…

"Sorry, I wasn't payin' attention," he apologized with the same sheepish tone he remembered from last night.

Cecilia stood right in front of him, her arms to her sides with that blank stare he remembered from the very first day he entered their camp. She was being guarded again like in front of the others, a world of difference from how she had behaved when alone with him last night. He could almost hear the mental doors shutting in front of him.

Khujand almost turned away right then, but stopped upon realizing that walking away without saying anything would be rude. That would be uncalled for; she hadn't done anything wrong. Perhaps her opinion was wrong about how the fight with the monster should have gone, but that was just his opinion as well. She had the right to talk or not talk to him as much or as little as she wanted.

He awkwardly tried to find a way to excuse himself and turn around. There was still a long night of patrolling and guarding the camp ahead of them and he feared that being around her would only make him mope around even more sullenly.

"I…guess I took tha wrong path," he started, rubbing the back of his neck and trying to look at anything in the area but her. "Ya told me ta patrol tha high road. I better get back ta that and focus on my job."

Not knowing what to say and not wanting to embarrass himself further, he started to leave. Before he could even turn all the way around, she spoke.

"We're already on the high road."

He cursed himself as he made the mistake of looking back, spying her sincere but still mostly unreadable face. Stupid moron, he told himself. This is a mistake. Walk away.

_It isn't a mistake._

"Yeah…I guess we are," he said uncomfortably as he remained in that sideways position, facing the trees. "Well, I better get back ta my patrol then."

Finally turning to leave, Khujand staved off his childishly hurt feelings as he held a straight face and walked away. Considering how attached he had grown to her in only a few days, he felt like he had handled the exchange the best he could.

"Do you require assistance on your patrol tonight?"

He froze, mentally kicking himself as he tried to shove down a sliver of hope that he was sure was futile. Against all his ingrained social ineptitude and insecurity, his body uncontrollably turned back to her.

"Yeah, um," he mumbled as he cleared his throat without needing to. "I think I do."

In anticipation of her following him, he stepped backward only to see Cecilia turn about face and walk in the other direction. Oh wait, they're going to the low road? Kicking up a bit of dust, he quickly followed her and tried to catch up as they trotted down another winding dirt path through the woods, descending down a long, sloping hill as he spied the valley through the trees.

The towering pair of camp guards walked in silence as they exited the forest and made their way out to the dark valley below. His voodoo magic didn't seem to be very active that night – he still had difficulty controlling it on Draenor sometimes – and there was no glow to his eyes. It was only because of the clear sky and the stars and moons shining down that he was able to view the entire valley so well, all the way to the red mountains bordering its edges.

Cecilia led them to some rocks jutting up from the grassy carpet of the valley and sat down without a word or even hand motion. Khujand sat next to her though not up against her, granting her space. Raising one foot up to a higher point on the boulder, she wrapped one hand over the other on her knee; it was a battle not to mimick her movements and remain seated normally. Though his mind wasn't racing, he was still reviewing in his head how any given movement would make him appear to her.

She stared up into the night sky and he did the same, unable to gauge what she was thinking or intending given her blank stare and the shyness he felt at the proposition of looking her in the eye again. Yet there was nothing he wanted more than to climb inside that head of hers, and to know what she was thinking. Or maybe hearing her talk and tell him her feelings willingly. Yes, that, he actually wanted more. And once again, he was left without any sort of justification as to why he would feel that way.

He almost jumped off the rock when he heard her clear her throat. His peripheral vision wasn't angled to see her properly.

_Just one time. It wouldn't hurt._

Ever so slightly, he turned his head to see if she was still staring at the sky…

…NO!

Oh God, she was looking at him too. The two of them quickly turned their eyes back to the sky, the silence washing over them for another few minutes.

It was too much for him to take. The stupid inner voice wouldn't shut the hell up about what she was thinking right at that moment. Wanting to sate the illogical desire inside of him, he gathered the courage to ask.

"Are ya still mad at me?"

She paused before answering, still staring at the sky. "A little."

He scratched his head. "Do ya feel like I screwed it all up?" he asked, without specifying to her whether he meant the monster fight or their connection by 'it.'

"No," she sighed with a reluctant contriteness. "But you hit me in the face with my own shield at a time when I was already tense. Everything just happened...wrong. Wrong place, wrong time."

"I'm sorry."

"You said sorry yesterday. It's over," she said dryly. Somehow, she broke the tension and turned to face him. "I'm your senior. Follow my orders next time even if you don't see the wisdom behind them."

_Don't argue._

Nodding, he continued looking up at the sky, not finding the confidence to turn to her after having been shut down even when he tried to apologize. He saw her linger for a moment as if to see if he would retort or shoot her a resentful glare. When he did no much thing, she turned back to look up at the sky as well.

Though they were both less tense, the situation still felt awkward. Khujand didn't know how to reconnect with her like before despite his inner voice screaming for him to do so, and she appeared as subdued as she did in front of the others.

For whatever stupid reason, he decided to try honesty.

"I thought ya wouldn't talk to me again," he whispered toward the sky. "Ya were so mad at me."

"It took me literally_ years _to find someone who understands how I feel; I wouldn't cut off with you over one botched fight," she quickly answered with an annoyed look, her hyperirritability poking through again. "I just needed to cool off for a day."

She turned to face him again. "I'm not mad that you were my jailer. I'm not mad that you dragged me by my hair. I'm not mad that you hurt people on my side like I killed people on yours. So I'm not going to stay mad over that one thing, Mister Sensitive."

Her sudden openness was heartening, but her tone was cold as she spoke. He suspected that she didn't want to be mad at him, but was not entirely in control of her anger. Grasping for anything to hold on to, he tried to flip the conversation onto her.

"Ya still distant," he said.

Cecilia leaned back onto her hands, unsuccessfully attempting to appear relaxed. "I'm not a machine, or a mindless drone like I was during the Long Vigil," she replied. "I have strong feelings now and I can't just push a button and make everything go away so easily."

Suddenly, a crazy idea swept over Khujand and his confidence surged. He knew how to make things better after viewing the entire valley.

"Ya know," he started with a raised eyebrow, "Vegnus said something about a bunch of salt flats over that ridge across the way." He pointed to a series of red rocks that were smaller than mountains and larger than hills. "There're all these geysers out there gushin' water all tha time, and he spied a small, unprepared Iron Horde camp."

Cecila sat forward and leaned closer to him, so close that he could feel the heat from her arm on his. He could no longer control the grin from spreading across his face from both their renewed closeness and hope that his idea would work. She looked at him with a puzzled yet curious expression and her eyes beckoned him to continue.

"I think I know what can lighten ya mood."

* * *

**A/N: Gore in the next chapter. Also, I am moving in a few days. Like I said, all chapters are already uploaded to the doc manager to hopefully I will maintain the one-chapter-every-five-days rule. If there's a delay, you all know why. I will try my best not to keep you waiting, though!**


	14. Moonlit Mayhem

**A/N: Ok, small warning. There is some cuteness in this chapter…Warcraft cuteness. The two main characters in this story are both war veterans from Azeroth who fight demons and supervillains for a living. Their idea of a pleasant evening might be…a bit more gruesome than what people do in real life. Consider yourselves warned.**

* * *

The entire long, flat expanse of the salt flats rumbled as the force of Draenor's natural spring water shifted. For hundreds of yards, maybe even a square mile, the dry, cracked badlands were pockmarked with the small craters that gushed forth boiling water colored with minerals.

The steam that rose from the water glistened under the moonlight and created a slight hissing sound as it escaped from cracks around the geysers themselves. The hot water failed to moisten the dry, light brown pieces of earth as it spilled over them, instead filling the cracks in between with a darker mud that oozed and bubbled up.

The rumbling increased as the entire area quaked with anticipation of the incredible force pushing its way to freedom. Reaching at least twenty feet in the air, a spout of hot water shot up out of a mud volcano, its roar deafening had there been anyone still living to hear it.

All around the geysers, soaked into the cracks between the broken ground, flowed dark red, stinking blood. Blood between the cracks. Blood mixed with the minerals. Blood caked on the few rocks. Blood shooting up out of a geyser. It was as though Draenor itself was bleeding.

Dotting the landscape in between the water and mud spouts were pieces of gore. Bone chips mixed in with the pebbles and small stones, and the last explosion of hot water shot shattered fragments of a humanoid skull into the air. The blood, the bones, the mud all created a foreboding sight.

Up in the sky, a small black dot soared across the moon. The oval was trailed by what appeared to be string attached to the back of it, flapping in the wind. It sailed in front of the moon, creating ghastly silhouette as it arced downward. The object picked up speed as it neared the ground, headed right for one of the geysers…

_::SPLAT::_

Landing just a foot and a half to the right of the geyser, the oval exploded into a mess of blood, brains and bone fragments as the disgusting mess seeped into the cracked earth. Just another grisly trophy of what must have been a horrifying battle.

"Woooooooooooooo! Ya almost got it, girl!"

"Don't call me girl, I'm five-hundred times your age!"

Fifty yards back, the flies had begun to collect over an undefended Iron Horde camp. The metal picket fence that had been set up in a semi-circle around some rocks was intact, but the sole wooden cart was on fire, as were the corpses of the two rabid timber wolves that had been pulling it. Smashed supply crates were scattered everywhere, the edible contents pillaged and strewn about half-eaten. Broken weapons and armor fragments littered the ground, the armor covered in blood.

No sight was as macabre as the pile of bodies. At least fourteen red-skinned orcs, minions of Grom Hellscream's wicked Iron Horde, lie dead in two piles. Their limp, lifeless bodies were battered and bruised, some impaled or riposted with their own weapons. Some were missing arms, some were missing legs, and eight of them were missing heads.

The entire sight was nothing but mayhem and murder of villains undeserving of pity or mercy. It was a slaughterhouse.

"You just picked this game because you wanted to impress me!"

"That's correct, little lady! Hey, what…? Ya're little compared ta me, right?"

A large jungle troll reclined atop a rock, his muscles taut as though he had just been exerting himself. His light azure skin was flecked with spots of red, an even deeper red than his mohawk. He had a pleased grin on his face with a relaxation that didn't match the innards and humanoid meat still staining the double-sided fel glaive on a drying rack to his right.

"I see that smile – ya know ya like it!"

"Shut up."

A heavily armored yet still graceful night elf stood tall at the edge of the demolished camp, wielding a large kodo femur conveniently shaped like a club with ease. Her shining silver armor was splattered with the blood of her enemies, a sign of her victorious conquest just a few minutes before. She was focused on the rhythmic eruptions of the geysers out on the salt flats, her dark azure ponytail that was miraculously untarnished by orc blood hanging halfway down her back.

She tried to pout at her comrade in arms on the rock, but a reluctant smirk interrupted her and resulted in a half-pout/half-smirk that only caused him to laugh more.

"Don't laugh! This is my first time!"

"It's all in tha hips, I told ya."

The armored elf laid the club down against a metal fence along with her tower shield and moon glaive momentarily, unable to prevent herself from sharing his smile. "How many has that been so far?"

The savage looking troll turned around to inspect the pile of devastation they had lain. Eight of the bodies had been decapitated. "Eight shots so far," he answered casually as though they weren't surrounded by dead bodies. "But ya gotta keep tryin', at least try ta make one shot before we go."

For a moment, the jungle troll stirred and sat up as he glanced at the bodies again. Before he had descended from the rock, he stopped himself and shot her a coyly raised eyebrow before settling back down. She pursed her lips, stifling another smirk as she looked at him expectedly.

"Oh, by tha way," he added cheekishly, "I got tha last one. It's your turn now."

This time, her pout was real though it was quickly followed by a mischievous grin that caught him off guard.

"Gosh," she exclaimed just a little too loud for a personal monologue, "my back sure is sore after stomping so many Iron Horde soldiers into the ground. Oh, how I wish I were a spry five thousand year-old again."

Bracing her hands barely above her rear, she arched her back just a little more than was required had she actually needed to stretch and inhaled deeply. As she bent backward, she rotated her head slightly and he noticed that she was checking out of the corner of her eye to see if he was looking.

The bad guy blood on her plate gear glinted in the moonlight just as the thorium itself did, reminding Khujand of how flawless Cecilia had been when spinning around and cutting through Iron Horde armor like butter. Her cheesy way of trying to sound cute, her back arching that was just a little too obvious, the way she looked so serene after having just cracked some skulls…

_It's sexy._

What! he thought to himself as his eyes visibly widened. Go away inner voice! Bad thoughts, bad!

"Uh...oh! One more severed head coming right up!" It took him a moment before he could stop ogling and realize what she was hinting at.

Khujand slipped off the rock and walked backward toward the miniature murder mountain, tripping over half a helmet on his way. Palming the cranium of a medium sized footsoldier, he braced its upper back with his other hand and twisted until he heard the neck crack. Then, he pulled until the neck flesh tore, the vertebrae snapped and the head came clean off.

As he regained his composure and walked back to her with the bleeding, fly-ridden severed head, she pulled her heels together and clasped her hands with her fingers intertwined, throwing her hands back like a princess receiving a suitor's gift.

"For me?" she said as she batted her eyelashes coquettishly. They shared a light chuckle in which he could have sworn he heard his own slight nervousness echoed in her voice as well. The torn neck flesh of the severed head was still sputtering blood on the ground, but neither of them noticed.

Khujand placed the severed head down in front of her as she took up his bone club again, standing sideways as he had instructed her. As he started to return to the rock, she tugged at the feathers attached to his bicep by a leather strap.

"Teach me."

He stopped like a deer in headlights once he could see where this was going. "But…it's simple, like I told ya!"

Cecilia clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "You told me verbally, but if you don't want to be here all night I'll need you to walk me through it. I just want to make one shot before we go."

Fighting off the gulp, he ambled back toward her, wishing he could do Kuma's breathing exercises and talk at the same time. "Well, uh, ya keep ya weight even between both legs."

"Like this?" she asked, straightening her legs and arching her back again, though this time she may not have been doing it on purpose.

"Yeah. And ya bend ya knees…no, that's a bit too much."

"Well, how much?"

"Okay," he sighed as he knelt and placed a hand behind the pit of her knee. His wrist and her leg twitched at the same time and they both pretended it didn't happen. He pushed in to the back of her knee until it was bent just enough. Her skin felt so soft under his palm that he had to fight off a tingling sensation between his eyes.

"Like this," he said, nearly slumping over from a kneeling position to falling over to the ground.

"And my back straight?"

"Yeah, ya know how ta do that."

Her eyes were focused on the salt flats before them, the moonlight bouncing off of the boiling water and illuminating the whole area. "But I feel like my swing is off."

"Well, it ain't about how hard or fast ya hit. It's about tha angle."

"Teach me!" she demanded, the insistence in her voice neither childish nor aggressive.

His entire neck jerked back, though she didn't notice. "What? Oh…uh, right."

He took a deep breath and prayed that his anxiety wouldn't show; the mere thought of hugging around her almost made him weak in the knees.

Moving with his chest against her back, Khujand wrapped his arms around Cecilia and covered her hands with his and prayed that the intense pounding of his heart wouldn't be strong enough for her to feel it through the back of her armor. Both of his feet were spread just wider than hers, the insteps of his shoes pressed right agaist the outer edge of her boots. Her armor wasn't cold and although she was the tallest night elf he had ever seen, he still had enough of a height advantage to hold his chin above her ear snugly. He hoped she wouldn't feel all the heat in his cheeks.

"It's all in tha hips, right? Ya arms shouldn't be doing much of the work. Raise tha club slowly and show me tha movement. Slowly."

"Like this?" She raised the club as he said, the outside of her arms pressing against the inside of his as a fiery tingle ran through the whole length of his body.

"Well, I feel ya arms tensin' a bit. Use ya core muscles."

He could feel her rear buck against him as she followed his instructions for a practice swing. It was some bizarre, once in a lifetime voodoo miracle that he didn't feint right there.

"Ya got it, ya got it. Go ahead, take tha swing."

Still gripping her hands in his, Khujand felt her arm muscles relax as she raised the club in a circular motion. Her eyes closed for a moment and she actually seemed to be focusing on the game. With one fluid movement, she brought the club down and he pressed his hips into hers at the right moment, helping her drive the swing into the severed orc head at the proper angle.

"Whoa! It's flying!"

The head soared as blood trailed behind it in the air, forming an arc that was aimed right for a dormant geyser. In what could almost be described as a symphony, the severed head landed directly into the opening of the geyser.

"Ya did it!"

"Woohoo! Up yours Hellscream!"

"Wait for it, there's somethin' else…"

Pressure mounted inside the now plugged geyser as the steam was not allowed to escape. Even with the fifty yards of distance, they could both feel the quake vibrating into the soles of their feet as they watched in awe. With an explosion of blood and mineral water, the geyser erupted into the sky, balancing what was left of the head on top of its spout for the eruption's duration and then leaving a pile of brains and teeth to fall to the ground once the spout had subsided.

"Taz dingo!"

"Hail to the night!"

The two ginormous fighters jumped up and down like children, celebrating her first hole-in-one that evening. They had not only reconciled after a bad experience the previous night and done their jobs of securing the camp for their companions, but also decimated an Iron Horde encampment, killed all fourteen of its troops and both its riding mounts and burned or ate most of its supplies. Playing golf with the severed heads of their foes was just icing on their cake of carnage.

Once they had caught their breath, they both looked back at the burning wagon and pile of bodies.

"Do ya…want ta hit some mor-"

"Oh by the moons, no," she laughed with a hand on his shoulder as she scrunched up her nose. "My back really does kind of hurt and the corpses are starting to stink."

His eyes softened as he realized he wasn't literally melting under her touch. "Oh thank God, I was hoping ya wouldn't wanna hang out here more. That's enough for a night."

The two of them gathered up their belongings, strapped their weapons in the appropriate places and readjusted their armor. The blood stains would have to be removed later. Khujand barely had a chance to react before he had to shoot out with his hands in front of him and grab the massive silver tower shield flying straight for his face.

"What tha hell!" he shouted as he caught it in the nick of time. "Why?"

Cecilia had already started jogging away, pointing to a long, grassy patch of land between the barren rocks as she moved. "Race you to that hill over there!"

Struggling as he tried to understand how best to hold a shield while running, he stumbled to a start. "Wait for me! Ya didn't gimme any time ta get ready!"

They ran, bounding down a slope and into the soft earth from whence the grass was growing. It was strange; the grass was straight but not sharp, and somehow it stood almost as tall as Cecilia despite the blades having no thickness or weight to them. There was a beaten path where the grass appeared to have been trampled for decades.

Winding through the field unevenly, she led him in the direction of a hill he hadn't gotten a good look at. Once he was comfortable holding the shield, he focused on the race, his thoughts clearing from his mind again like they had during their slow dance the other night. He wasn't thinking and worrying anymore, and anything outside of that field no longer existed.

"Come on, slowpoke!"

She was undoubtedly faster than he was, yet she never allowed him to drop out of her sight. When he began to catch up, she put more distance between them. When he had difficulty angling around some of the mounds of soil and thicker patches of grass, she would slow down to a jog in an almost sideways position and watch until he built up speed again, grinning wide the entire way as he fixated on those pretty, pearly fangs.

They hit a straightaway in the grassy field, though it was difficult to tell which direction they were running in now. She turned around and jogged backwards now, waiting for his reaction. A tall blade of grass bent like an upside down letter L brushed against his face and startled him, but he regained his balance and saw her laughing with him. It was on, and he clutched her shield closer and barreled down the dirt path. She spun around but continued jogging, waiting for him to almost pass her before she burst forward again, ignoring a bend in the dirt path and running straight into the field of grass. There was a dip as the soil fell in elevation by a foot or so, and she staggered and picked herself up again as she disappeared.

"Hey, there might be snakes here!" he laughed a bit nervously, though he was still willing to follow her anywhere she led them.

He slowed down to a trot as he heard her footsteps slow down as well. His mohawk and the top of his head were just barely visible above the blades of grass and there was no way he could approach her without being seen; she knew exactly where he was. Moving around in a circle, his long ears pricked to pick up where the sound of moving grass was coming from.

Off to his right, several tall blades were trampled by feet carrying a weight less than his that he could tell was roughly Kaldorei sized. His heart pounded excitedly as he followed, still keeping the shield tucked underneath one arm. The grass was trampled back to his left now and he darted in that direction, more or less resigned to not only losing the race but losing whenever she felt it was time. At that moment, he was comfortable even losing herself as he felt every point of strain and stress in his body disappear.

"Psst."

Through the evergreen blades shining even brighter under the stars, he spied a flash of silver followed by long azure strands just a little darker than his own skin. Thinking he was clever, Khujand leapt forward and swept the tall grass away only to see more grass. He looked around, wondering how someone suited up for battle could move so quickly.

"Too slow!" she chirped as the tagged his shoulder from behind and ran right past him without looking back.

"Ya cheatin'! I gotta carry this shield!"

She jogged a bit faster now, but took the time to turn back over her shoulder as they sped up. "I'm still wearing plate!" Her armor clinked as she turned back around and leapt up out of the grass.

Following her up a small embankment, he found them both on another beaten path with some soil and mostly matted down grass. She put more distance between them, not checking back to see if he could catch up and he clung to her shield even more tightly as he tried to convince himself that he could catch the suddenly very youthful elf.

The grass was as high as her shoulders on the raised path now, allowing them to see the rolling hills of the lush valley dotted by lakes and the occasional large rock. He snapped back as she reached up behind her head and slowed down a bit to unfasten something from her hair. A series of metal clips was covered by a violet-blue scrunchie, its fluffy and diminutive form contrasting with the blood-splattered armor she wore. Khujand could have sworn that scrunchies had gone out of style on Azeroth before the war in Outland had even started six years ago, though it was still a cute contrast on Cecilia's hair.

Earlier that night, she had grabbed onto the arm of an Iron Horde soldier and ripped his arm right out of the socket, then beaten him to death with his own arm. Now she was undoing her ponytail and letting her long azure hair flap in the wind behind her, fastening the wavy violet-blue piece of cloth around her wrist like a gigantic, seven-and-a-half foot tall youngling. The irony was overwhelming and he almost couldn't believe the two beautifully contrasting images were the same person.

Yet there she was, blue locks flowing, slightly-dated hair fastener on wrist, arms spread wide open as she ran the tips of her fingers through the tall blades of grass on either side of the beaten path. A spell of some sort had been cast on him, and he had no desire to cure whatever she afflicted him with. She took off, leaving him in the dust as she bounced irreverently around a taller patch of grass to the left and out of his sight.

Guided by the sound of her light footsteps, he followed around the patch of grass in an attempt to catch up. Once he caught sight of her, he stopped dead in his tracks.

There were some scattered trees off to the sides of the flat area; it wasn't quite a forest and the trees were far smaller than those in Ashenvale, but it did create a sort of clearing. In the middle of the sort-of-clearing stood a hill. It wasn't as large or as far away as _that_ hill he was thinking of, nor was he on a raised ledge. But it was close enough because of the moon.

In a way which seemed so magical that he probably imagined it, a ray of moonlight shone down on the top of the hill. It created a sort of blue pinnacle surrounded by the pitch black sky, with wisp-like particles floating in the air and shining visibly as they passed through. In the middle of it all stood a night elf, the light of her eyes shining not quite as brightly as those of most of her people but bright enough to be seen nonetheless. The significance of the scene was obviously lost on her, but she paused and seemed to allow him time to slip in to some sort of flashback, a stupefied look on his face. It reminded him of a dream he had about a night long ago when he wished, in his lonely misery, that he could move on from the ruination that was his life. Now, years later, he found a person who had been down that path and seemed to have mentally coped with the reality of her crimes. Although there was no jealousy for what she'd achieved, he admired how she seemed to truly be happy despite knowing what she'd done. Perhaps, one day, he'd be able to just move on from the past as well.

They stared back and forth for a minute, and when she laughed he knew that she was experiencing the same sense warm relief, both of them leaving all the pain and guilt behind at least when they were able to commiserate.

As Khujand approached, Cecilia sat down and removed her helmet and glaive, signaling that they could finally sit down and get some rest after the hiking, battling and racing during the first part of that night.

* * *

The two of them laid down on the top of the hill as they looked up at the stars. There were no clouds that night and the could see the gas clouds suspended out in the emptiness of the Twisting Nether, both trying to wrap their heads around the whole alternate timeline thing as they panted and caught their breath.

They were both flat on their backs, with their heads side-by-side and their feet pointing in opposite directions from each other. His gloves were thick enough to function as makeshift pillows for them both.

"But when we get back to Azeroth, will it be _our_ Azeroth? Or could it be a third timeline?"

Khujand blinked, his mind blown away by Cecilia's questioning. "That Khadgar fellow ya have there in tha Alliance said some stuff ta the ones of us that survived through ta tha end of Tanaan, but I didn't understand a word of it." They both went silent before he finished. "I think he said it would all be fine."

The camp was in clear view from the top of the hill, and with Cecilia's night vision they were able to keep an eye out for any potential threats. It was about half a mile from where they were in the valley; they didn't feel like they were shirking their responsibilities.

It was a welcome break after the race, at least for them to catch their breath.

"Thanks," she whispered out of nowhere. He turned his head to see her upside-down face, his perplexion apparent as he tried and failed to figure out what she was thanking him for.

"It isn't easy for me to cool off when I'm angry," she elaborated, recognizing that there was a lack of context to her previous statement. "All that…it was just what I needed."

He breathed deeply, unable and unwilling to stifle his smile at her acknowledgement of their reconciliation. "Tha least I could do, seein' how I wouldn'ta opened up like we did tha other night unless ya pushed for it, and we woulda missed tha opportunity ta realize that we ain't alone."

She smiled as well, knowing where he was going with this. "I guess I didn't finish my story, did I?"

Khujand scratched a non-existant itch on his elbow as he tried to appear nonchalant, not wanting to push her if she wasn't ready. "Ya only say as much as ya want, when ya want, for however long ya want. I don't wanna make ya feel tense or stressed."

Cecilia swatted at him playfully and snorted. "I told you, I want to share. Sharing means that you told your story, so I have to tell mine."

He started laughing with his mouth closed, causing her to roll over even closer to him curiously.

"What?" she asked as she caught his eyes once again, red meeting silver.

His comfort level remaining steady despite the eye contact, Khujand felt himself loosening up as well. "Do tha voice."

She arched her brow as she tried to figure out what he meant by that and then stifled a laugh herself. "Seriously?"

"Talkin' is up ta ya but that voice is mandatory," he said, looking back up to the sky again and closing his eyes in anticipation.

Cecilia cleared her throat, taking a moment to stop laughing herself. "Let me tell you a story," she said in the best arakkoa accent she could muster as they both writhed around laughing.


	15. Ishnu Alah, Booty Bay

_Seven years and two months ago._

Isurith arched her back and stretched with a wide grin as she enjoyed the feeling of the soft bedsheets on her bare skin. The noise of the early-morning streets of the southside of Booty Bay's bottom-level boardwalk could be heard outside her cramped but comfortable hotel room, reminding her of the excitement that still filled her every time she stepped outside.

The wood-plank architecture of the room reminded her of where she was, as virtually the entire city was constructed from that soft material cut from the local tropical rainforest. Although it still bothered her to see trees being killed for people to live from, she understood after seeing the poverty of the orcs in Kalimdor that the foreigners simply didn't know any other way to live.

Three days into her stay and she was quite enjoying the foreigners, actually. For a night elf who had spent so long in isolation, the feeling of being so out of her element there in Booty Bay was amazing and exhilerating - a world apart from the ostracization she had felt in Theramore or the entrapment she felt back home in Ashenvale. Isurith was no longer existing; she was really living.

She rolled around in the sheets like a giant child, wrapping herself in the sweet-smelling blanket and enjoying the lightheaded feeling of lazing about in bed for too long just because she felt like it. Her nightmares began to reduce in number and duration the first night on the ship from Theramore, and by the time she arrived in Booty Bay they had stopped entirely; now, nobody could take those precious moments of lying in nothing but blankets and planning the day out in comfort phantom-free.

"No more waffles..." Isurith mumbled out loud, flashbacks of the soggy flaps of wheat mixing with both the good dream she had just come out of and her waking consciousness as she searched for the will to get out of bed.

The voyage across the ocean had taken three weeks and some change, and though she had mostly kept to herself the rest of the crew had taken a liking to their unique colleague. None of the goblins or hobgoblins on the ship had ever worked with a night elf before and found her mannerisms as fascinating as she found theirs. Isurith was pleasantly surprised to realize that there was such a thing as _female_ hobgoblins and even opened up enough to chat with them a few nights under the stars. The captain of the ship had been so impressed by her work rearranging the supplies in the decks that he even offered to give Isurith her medal back. Cringing at the sight of it, she requested a wage instead and was surprised by how readily the overall-wearing goblin offered her gold.

With her coinpurse full again, she had hit the docks of Booty Bay tired and disoriented as the realization that she had finally made it and had finally reached the center of the universe washed over her. She had heard so much about Booty Bay - it was busy, it was diverse, it was exciting. People of all races and all cultures met to do business, selling wares from every known producer and manufacturer in quantities which one could only dream of.

Isurith had only lived in a few places despite being twelve-thousand years old. She was born into a middle-class household in Suramar near the Well of Eternity, her parents' neighborhood of chiseled, pre-war style stone houses and the neighborhoods of her friends being all she knew for two millennia. Life was a grand utopia at that time as they enjoyed a noncturnal lifestyle of revelrie and entertainment based around high culture and arcane magic. The world was shattered during the Sundering, and her family barely survived the sinking of most of Kalimdor's landmass as the ocean swept over the continent and forced her and her neighbors to board rickety boats. After days of sailing, they reached dry land and trekked for days before regrouping with the new night elven government at the base of Mount Hyjal.

As was the sacred duty of all Kaldorei, her family was assigned to defend an unnamed grove in south-central Ashenvale, bidding farewell to their male relatives as the burden of leadership in a martial society was thrust upon women who up to that point had mostly busied themselves in fine arts and homemaking. The pain and shock was indescribable as so many women were unable to cope with the change in responsibilties and were thus torn apart in the cruel, savage wilds of the forest as they failed to transition from a patriarchal aristocrat society to a matriarchal warrior society. But, for those that did survive and transition to the new lifestyle, the series of groves and villages dotting northern Kalimdor was home. Lastly, Isurith moved in with her sister at the new family household in Astranaar once her neice had been born, making a total of only three places she had lived across an entire twelve millennia.

"And here we are," Isurith cooed to herself as she finally opened her eyes to inspect the light brown wood planks of the ceiling.

She felt like she had finally made it. Although it wasn't much discussed, the loss of the World Tree and immortality had fractured her people and just as many were lost in the crises her people had faced before, some were lost as their role as defenders of Nordrassil ended. Most night elves - whether they regretted the loss of immortality or embraced it - were distressed but carried on as they had always done. Many of them became psychologically disturbed and distant from others. And while some would deny it, suicide became known to a tiny handful of night elf communities as certain individuals found no reason for their continued presence on Azeroth.

Isurith could have been one of the lost ones. She experienced a nervous breakdown after pushing for Unelia's exile from their grove once the relationship with Johan had been revealed. To join the Silverwing Sentinels was not so much to defend her people's land as it was an attempt to justify her own presence in the world and find meaning in her life. When that meaning turned out to be the intentional targeting of orcish civilians - a crude but ignorantly innocent people who just wanted to find their place in the world as well - Isurith was shattered and returned to Unelia's household in Astranaar a nervous wreck. By all measures, she should have been found in a gutter rambling about the past once the dwarves began to export their drink to Kalimdor upon the night elves' membership in the Alliance.

"Not meeeee," Isurith beamed as she held the wrapped blanket around herself despite being alone and bounced over to her travel bag on the dresser. Now that she was finally living alone for the first time in _twelve thousand years_, she found that she could talk to herself out loud without the confused expressions from her brother-in-law and uncle.

No, not her. She was a survivor, she thought to herself, and she would venture out into this brave new world, make it hers and accept the wonders it brought while resisting the temptations of hard liquor, refined sugar and arcane magic that afflicted so many of the younger races. Nobody would corrupt her clean, natural lifestyle and everybody would offer something different and unique that would make them worth knowing. Booty Bay seemed like a wholesome, well-managed city based on what she had seen in the past three days, and now that she was rested, adjusted to the difference in climate and noise pollution and mentally accepting of her new surroundings, she could start looking for work.

Throwing on a pair of loose, turqoise cotton pants and a matching lightweight, long-sleeved shirt, Isurith began looking for the carved mahogany comb her neice had picked out for her during one of her biannual leaves of absence from Silverwing Refuge a year ago. It had been sitting on the dresser, plain as day, before she had left to enjoy the city yesterday. By the time she had returned, it was late and she was tired, and she hadn't checked the dresser but she knew she hadn't move it. How could it have disappeared? The only people with keys were herself and the maid; it's not like somebody could have stolen it.

"Whatever," she said nonchalantly as she proceeded to tease her hair with her fingers in front of the mirror. Isurith had many centuries of experience managing her hair without the help of a comb during longer patrols through the woods.

Slipping on a pair of sandals and shoving her coinpurse into a small handbag, she exited her hotel room and strolled downstairs into the ground floor of the hotel which also functioned as a snack bar. She would need a quick bite to eat before beginning her first day of offering her skills to the world.

* * *

Even after three days, the view that met Isurith's eyes out there on the boardwalk was breathtaking in a way that was quite different from the natural beauty of Kalimdor. Booty Bay was originally a pirate cove based on a bay about a mile wide, with three levels of boardwalks lining the naturally flat rocky face of the mainland. Urban sprawl with the increasing amount of activity between the races of Azeroth led to construction high on the elevated ridges above, and technologies developed by the gnomes and goblins that were fueled by coal and steam were manufactured and shipped to all the other major port cities of the world. The boardwalks were crowded day and night with people from almost every imaginable race and creed - and even a few races Isurith had never heard of - speaking a plethora of languages.

Donning the sunglasses she had bought on her first day, she spied a group of orcs haggling amicably with human traders from Stormwind over spools of fabric. Merchants from everywhere all seemed to have an obsession with long, flowing robes made from expensive material, as though it were some sort of racially neutral uniform. The sailors all seemed to wear the same breeches and unbuttoned shirts as well regardless of size or shape, and Isurith began to realize how truly sheltered her people had been during the Vigil. Here was a city full of races whose people were fighting elsewhere, and in this city they were following fashion trends that seemed to transcend differences and mingling with one another as though nothing was amiss. Their lifespans were shorter than hers, but the new sights and sounds proved to her that she still had a lot to learn from these people. It was hard for her to imagine that a few years prior, she had been one of the extremists at her grove calling for all non-night elves to be ejected from the forest and killed if they refused to vacate. It was as though the prior millennia of socialization were all forgotten in just a few days of overexposure to the overwhelming new experiences.

As she curved her way between a group of three loincloth-clad tauren about as awestruck by the city as she was, she practically bumped into a high elf politely asking a troll couple for directions and then receiving them in a civil, non-sarcastic manner.

Isurith lingered as she studied the male troll's face for a moment without realizing she was staring. The man had bright orange hair and slouched quite a bit. He still had the wide frame of his people, though, and those powerful limbs and body that made him appear as though he spent his days hunting and killing his own food. The jutting jaw, sloping forehead and deep set eyes coupled with the more familiar long ears and broad shoulders made him look even more like a primordial elf. As she tried to slip past the group with her back to the wall of another shop, she couldn't help but notice the scent of musk; it seemed like all the men of his kind had a natural smell that was like the cologne produced in stores-

"Ahem," sounded the voice of a female troll with a cue that would be understood regardless of language.

A territorial glare from the red-headed woman reminded Isurith of where she really was and she hurried on her way, shoving the whole exchange out of her mind. Spinning in and out of a herd of gnolls - is that what their groups are called? Herds? - Isurith placed her hand on a low signpost and lifted herself as she walked to avoid trampling yet another gaggle of gnomes not paying attention to where they were going.

Passing numerous shops and contracting offices on her right with the docks on her left, she stood to one side of the boardwalk and she glanced over the heads of every other person there to look for some sort of employment office. The night elves always made sure that nobody in their towns was without something to do; surely in a place full of such friendly and seemingly honest people there would be an establishment dedicated to putting people to work.

Spotting one of the armored law enforcement officials everyone referred to as 'bruisers' - short yet formidable goblin security forces - Isurith felt relieved. Obviously, _he_ would know where she could offer her skills to the world.

As she approached, he noticed her looking at him and turned his craggy face in her direction, one eye permanently closed a bit more than the other. Everyone else on the boardwalk expressly avoided walking too closely to the bruisers, yet he didn't appear hostile to her.

"Excuse me," she asked politely in Common as he turned all the way to stand facing her. "Could you direct me to the city's employment office?"

The short yet tough looking bruiser with a face perhaps even his mother didn't love looked confused. "Employment? Are you referring to a specific place, or you mean like some kind of recruiter?"

Isurith was surprised that who she assumed must be an officer of some rank didn't know about his own city's employment office. "I mean the office in charge of helping people find work!" she exclaimed, finding the small man's confusion to be precious.

"Help?" he asked incredulously. "Finding work? Ma'am, how long have you been here?"

Isurith suddenly felt as though she had said something wrong despite the bruiser asking the question sincerely, and she felt a bit self-conscious. "I've been here for three days now, sir, mostly just enjoying all the sights and restaurants."

The bruiser's eyes grew wide, one opening more than the other. His craggy face softened sympathetically, the way a brother might look at an annoying little sister as he spoke. "Alright look, you got a lot to learn. See over there?" he asked as he pointed perhaps three hundred yards down the boardwalk to three extremely busy-looking shops with a single, five-foot tall billboard surrounded by a diverse crowd out front.

"Yes!" she shouted in a voice that was louder than a normal conversation voice but aroused no interest in the bustling crowd around them.

"Alright, the mercenary guilds are down there," he said in a rushed town as he tried to usher her away. "New quests are posted on the billboard and specific jobs can be inquired about inside. Take care of yourself, this isn't the easiest city on Azeroth."

"I'll keep that in mind, sentinel bruiser," she said thankfully though without knowing what specifically to call him.

"It's Xyran, Xyran Gyroblast. Watch out for yourself, kid." He quickly went back to his post, surveying the crowd and most likely watching out for pickpockets.

Weaving her way in and out of the wall of people chattering away and carrying various bought and sold items, Isurith approached the crowd forming around the three offices. She wanted nothing to do with fighting anymore and wouldn't accept mercenary work, but perhaps there was some sort of academic or knowledge-based quest someone would need completed.

The scene was utter chaos as various armed and armored travelers bragged about adventures that probably never took place and laughed just a little too loud at jokes they may not have even understood. Several more were negotiating terms while a group of orc women accompanying one tall human barbarian covered in tribal tattoos argued with a witch doctor over the reward for a few severed raptor heads they were hauling. There was one goblin clerk seated on an empty wooden crate beside the three buildings tucked into the bedrock of the cove reading a newspaper. Isurith approached, not in the mood for dealing with more people who killed for a living.

"Excuse me," she said politely as she cleared her throat. The goblin continued reading.

"Excuse me sir," she asked a second time, just a little louder. This time he peered out from behind the newspaper and looked her up and down.

"No weapons?" he asked bluntly.

"No sir," she said with a guiltless shake of her head. "I was wondering if there was any work that didn't involve fighting. I speak six languages and I'm also fairly well versed in botany." She felt rather proud of that; surely, such skills would be needed in a world where most of the population couldn't read.

Looking her over curiously, the goblin set his newspaper down next to him. "How long have you been here?" he sighed.

Isurith began to tire of the question. "Three days," she answered politely as she could.

The small man tapped his chin with his finger, giving her a similar sympathetic look. "Okay listen," he started thoughtfully, appearing to take her eagerness seriously. "We sometimes have gathering quests that can be done in the area just outside the city. Not this morning specifically, but usually every few days. People need herbs and other things that can naturally be found, but they aren't able or willing to do so themselves."

Isurith frowned; the thought of someone as educated, experienced and long-lived as her fetching supplies for someone else wasn't what she had expected. "Are you sure there isn't anything related to translation? Or perhaps on-the-spot interpreting?"

The man almost seemed shy to break the news to her now. "Well, to be honest, most of the sailors and merchants can't read but they're _all_ multi-lingual. And if there is the sort of work that needs a professional, they find someone on the spot - I don't think there are actual offices for that."

Isurith pursed her lips; this city was supposed to be a place of opportunity. She had expected recruiters to be more organized. Although she had wanted to meet people from different cultures, the sudden epiphany that there weren't jobs simply falling out of the sky hit her hard.

"Well, I will check back later then," she huffed with disappointment. The goblin eyed her with a confused look before returning to his newspaper.

Wading through the crowd again, she surveyed the numerous piers and wharfs with laborers hauling goods and merchants making deals. It made logical sense; if they had to deal with so many different kinds of people all the time, their need for an interpreter might not be as signficant as the the need in elven lands like Darkshore and the Zoram Strand. Wiping the pout off her face, Isurith pushed the negativity out of her head.

"I know how to do other things," she repeated to herself, feeling an uplifting boost to her confidence.

Noticing the business around a large, technically one-story building with no doors in the doorways and a very high ceiling, she approached, deciding to people watch and see just how deals were made in the city. Walking anywhere on the boardwalk was a chore, as every square inch seemed to be occupied by people coming and going. Pressing herself against the wooden railing on one side to move around a putrid but docile-looking undead abomination, she managed to get to one of the ramps leading up to the second level boardwalk. Stepping up and over the railway with her long legs, she had a better vantage point to spy the doorless building full of shouting people with various colorful items.

"Oh my!" she gasped to herself with pleasant surprise. She placed one hand on her chest as she fiddled with her sunglasses to focus on the occupant of the single dark brown wooden bench about twenty yard ahead of her.

Between that building and what appeared to be a shop selling crates and barrels, there sat a tall woman on the bench wearing a navy blue frilly dress. It appear to be somewhere between formal and casual by the standards of outlanders, falling a few inches below her knees and with sleeves that almost reached down to her elbows. Her curved-up slippers - the outlanders referred to them as 'elf slippers' yet they were entirely a human invention - were the same navy blue hue, which ironically matched most of her pinned-back hair aside from what appeared to be silver streaks. The two glowing eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses practically hummed music to her ears. Isurith had finally found another night elf in Booty Bay!

Hoping to meet a new friend, someone she could relate to and perhaps a mentor in this new city, she hurried down toward the bench as quickly as she could given all the various people of various heights standing in her way.

Halfway there, they made eye contact - or sunglasses contact, to be more exact - and Isurith couldn't help but flash a goofy grin. This was not only her first time living outside of Kalimdor, but her first time to meet another Kaldorei outside of Kalimdor. It was a connection only her people could understand; like an automatic friendship -

Wait, why was the other elf standing and turning away?

With not so much as a wave, the slender figure colored almost entirely in navy blue from head to toe, hair to shoes was now walking in the opposite direction and turning down a small side street between the various wood-plank buildings on the dockside of Booty Bay.

"She must not have seen me!" Isurith said excitedly to herself in Darnassian, not a soul around her taking notice of her talking out loud as they all went about their business.

Swiftly dodging around and in between groups of ambling shoppers and crate-carriers, she made her way around the corner in no time and found herself in an alleyway about six feet wide. Looking forward, she could see two more intersecting alleyways on the little street she was on before it hit a dead end with the sheer rock wall of the cove. There were no back doors to the buildings here, and for some inexplicable reason some of the wood plank walls were covered in beige plaster. A handful of cheery orcs and goblins walked empty handed through the intersecting streets as they chatted.

Quickly moving down the narrow street to locate her new friend, Isurith looked left and right at the first intersection only to see more intersections on her right and the alleyway leading out to the descending ramp to the pier on her left. Her tracking skills led her to believe that at the speed the other elf had been walking, she wouldn't have made it to the end of either alley by then. Her heart rate was up and her disappointment with the guild of mercenaries was now forgotten; this chase after another Kaldorei in a foreign city so far from Kalimdor was fun!

Isurith bounded down to the next alley intersection, stepping over some wet magazines on her way. With a quick glance to her right, her search was rewarded: two shirtless tauren were struggling to carry angle an oddly-shaped, imbalanced piano down the alley, blocking the other night elf female from passing around. A now giddy Isurith moved forward, tapping her new friend on the shoulder and then standing up straight with her hands folded in front of her pleasantly.

The other elf's shoulders clenched and she turned around slowly, the look of a child caught stealing a pie from a windowsill plastered on her face.

"Hi!" chirped Isurith with a long, circular wave of her hand. "I'm so happy I'm not the only one here!"

The other elf - about a head shorter than Isurith - turned her head back to the two tauren, who were straining to prevent the piano from scraping against the walls. She turned back to Isurith demurely and pushed a strand of her hair behind one ear.

"Did anybody send you?" she asked with a concerned, rushed tone barely above a whisper. "Are you with Priestess Maestra?"

Isurith chuckled heartily both at the question and her sister elf's shyness. "No, I'm not from Maestra's Outpost. My family has a home in Astranaar. How did you end up here?"

The shorter elf began looking back behind the tauren again and then forward to the alley behind Isurith. "What?"

"How did you end up in Booty Bay?" Isurith asked a bit louder. "I just got here and was starting my job search! Are you looking to enter into the brave new world, too?"

The shorter elf crooked her neck back incredulously before her mouth dropped open a bit wider. Taking Isurith by the hand, she hurried over to the main street in the web of alleyways and turned right, pulling her taller companion into the dead end.

"Oh, where are we going?"

"Please tell me the truth," the frilly-dressed elf urged with a distressed look on her face. "By Elune, who sent you?"

Isurith's cheery mood deflated only slightly and she sniffed the air, trying and failing to find the odor of alcohol on the shorter elf.

"Nobody sent me here, silly," she replied with a sympathetic arch of her long eyebrows. "I'm Isurith Swiftfoot. What's your name?" She reached forward and tucked the strand of hair, which had fallen again, back behind her new friend's ear; it was not usual for elves to be so forward with touch, but they seemed to be the only two of their kind so far from home. Isurith immediately felt a sense of closeness with someone who may have once walked down the same path she now fond herself on.

"I love the silver streaks in your hair," Isurith continued to the fidgety elf. "Are you one of the Riverwood sisters?"

The short elf looked down. "N-no, I'm not a Riverwood."

"I'm sorry, I must have come off so strong!" Isurith exclaimed, the warmth she felt from finding this interesting new person overriding the normal restraint of someone as ancient as she. "Your hands are trembling; perhaps I have made you nervous."

The elf's jaw dropped open again as she sought to say something and then held back. "How long have you been here?" she asked as she leaned forward and cocked her head to one side.

Isurith shot her a mock-angry glance. "Everybody keeps asking me that! Is it that obvious?" She wiped the look off her face and switched to a sweet smile. "I've been here three days, and I only started looking for work today."

The on and off flashing of the amber glow from behind the short elf's sunglasses implied that she was blinking in rapid succession, the shock apparent on her face. "Come!"

Despite being much heavier than the amber-eyed spaz, Isurith followed as her new friend dragged her forward, hurrying out onto the main boardwalk and turning right toward the ramp which led down to the docks devoted to smaller, rapid-sailing passenger ships.

"Where are we going?" Isurith asked innocently. "You never told me your name, by the way."

The smaller elf ignored her, pulling her the full fifty yards down toward a booth with an attendant inside. The goblin dockmaster Isurith had met yesterday chatted with some human laborers next to the booth.

"Ratchet!" the shorter elf shouted urgently in Common at the booth attendant. "We need one ticket for the next ship out!"

Isurith pulled her hand out of the shorter elf's grip, her pleasant mood from before suddenly shattered by her new friend's erratic behavior. "Wait, what are you doi-"

The shorter elf moved around Isurith such that the dock master and his employees wouldn't hear her hushed tone in Darnassian.

"Please, listen to me, if there's one thing you do today then you _must listen to me_," she whispered as the grabbed both of Isurith's upper arms. "Go home. Go home! Whatever you think it is you'll find here, you're mistaken about. This place isn't for our people-"

"Slow down!" Isurith interrupted. "Calm down, okay? I'm with you here, everything is fine." Removing the elf's hands from her own arms, Isurith clasped her new friend's right hand in her own and patted it with her left, wondering what it was that had upset this person so much. "Tell me, what's troubling you? Have you been harassed by one of the outlanders?"

The elf's chin began to tremble as much as her right hand, though without seeing her eyes it was difficult for Isurith to tell what exactly the shorter woman was feeling. "Go. Please, just go; don't ask any questions. You - no don't!"

It was too late. In her culture shocked, starstruck state, Isurith had already reached forward toward her sister elf's face and pulled the sunglasses forward to check those amber eyes and see whether it was fear, anger or something else. Like tucking the strand of hair, such a move would normally be considered too forward for unrelated elves but at that point, Isurith was not only feeling the connection of meeting another night elf outside of their lands but also the strong sense of concern over her compatriot's obvious dismay.

"Oh! My sister! What..." Isurith pulled back slightly as she snuck a peek at the shocked shorter elf's eyes, both of them pulling back from one another in fear.

The eyes of night elves generally have two colors: silver or amber. Bright silver eyes are the most common; bright amber eyes generally insinuated druidic talent. The entire eye was one indistinguishable glow of either color, burning onto their cheeks and casting light into the night unless they were shadowmelded. The only time the pupils and irises would be discinernable from the white sclera was after death, when the soul leaving the body was signified by the disappearance of the glow.

And yet Isurith knew what she had seen. The fact that the glow of this poor woman's eyes was so dim and weak had not been noticeable behind the sunglasses. Her entire eye was white, save the darkened yellow irises and the amber pupils which were shining a very slight glow, almost unnoticeable like a part-elf/part-human person of very diluted ancestry.

Yet this woman was quite obviously a night elf; their people had not been mixing with other races long enough for half-Kaldorei like Isurith's neice Corrianna to come of age and even then, fifty-percent Kaldorei ancestry would still result in brightly glowing eyes. This woman's facial features were pure, unadulturated night elf as was her obvious central Ashenvale accent she shared with Isurith.

But how...what...where was the glow to her dull, faded eyes? Why were her pupils and irises visible? Nothing Isurith knew of, not even arcane magic addiction, caused such a condition. It was not just disconcerting; it was downright repulsive, as much as Isurith truly _hated_ to even think that, even for one second, about another night elf woman. Those were the eyes of someone who was dead or dying. How...how was she even alive? It was the same discomfort one might feel when confronting someone with a rare birth defect or a deformity from a serious accident.

The other elf pulled her shaky hand away, quickly readjusting her sunglasses as a look of pure shame spread across her face.

"Why did you do that..." she whined with a depressed sounding voice.

"My sister..." Isurith whispered, the guilt apparent in hers. "I...I'm so sorry, I was just thrilled to have met you...what...what happ-"

"Oh Anna!" called the raspy voice of an older human female who sounded as though she had smoked tobacco for many years. The shorter elf shut her eyes and stepped even further away from Isurith, her ears pricking up at the sound of the voice from the ramp leading to the docks.

Turning to see the voice, Isurith spied a pink-skinned woman wearing the same outfit as her elven friend (minus the curved slippers) flanked by an angry looking black-haired dwarf male wearing a navy-blue jumpsuit. They were both approaching the shorter elf as though Isurith wasn't there, and two nearby bruisers guarding the ramp immediately began inspecting the scene.

"Anna?" Isurith asked as she turned toward her disturbed friend. "That's not an elven name."

"Excuse us, honey," the human female said in Common with a surprisingly sincere, polite voice to Isurith as she patted the tall warrior elf on the arm and walked by her. "Anna, you weren't at the bench we left you at; you were warned that we would be leaving very soon."

The shorter elf apparently named Anna looked down at the ramp, picking at her fingernails nervously. Isurith sensed that something was awry, but held her mouth shut and observed the scene when she saw the two bruisers move just a little bit closer. She didn't want to have a repeat of what occured in Theramore and stepped back cautiously, though she was still greatly concerned about the wellbeing of 'Anna.'

"There a problem?" the dockmaster asked the human female casually.

The angry dwarf turned around and waved a sheet of parchment in the dockmaster's direction. "Work contract, stamped by the notary public of the Venture Company reps in Undermine," he spat out in a quiet yet rushed tone by the standards of dwarves. "We're jest rounding up our employees."

The dockmaster burned at the dwarf for a moment in a less-than-pleased manner before nodding his head at the two bruisers to back off. Isurith could only stand in utter confusion as she tried to comprehend what was going on.

"Anna, I think it's about time you took your _medicine_," the human female cooed in a motherly, concerned voice, eliciting a visible cringe from the distraught elf at the last word in the sentence. "Come back to the ship now and we can help you _relax_."

Isurith stepped forward with determination; she had seen enough. She might not have her weapons, she might not have any legal authority in this jurisdiction, but this woman was _her_ sister, and no matter what the nature of this contract was there was obviously something shady going on. Before she could open her mouth, she felt a strong clawed hand gripping hers. Looking down, she saw the brotherly look that the craggy-faced bruiser from earlier was directing at her.

"Don't get involved, kid," Xyran advised urgently despite only being a fraction of her age. "You're new here, just stay out of what you don't understand."

"Mister bruiser, I don't underst...wait, where did they go?"

Somehow, the experienced former sentinel hadn't even noticed the group of three move down the ramp, already having made it halfway down toward the passenger docks before Isurith had even realized what was going on.

"It's better not to know, sometimes," the grizzled bruiser explained in a sympathetic tone that contrasted with his tough exterior. He turned to watch the human female clutching the much taller elf's arm, pulling 'Anna' along the docks behind the dwarf as she hugged herself.

"She's one of my people, I have a right to know what's going on!" Isurith urged as she switched between looking down at the brotherly bruiser and then down at the quickly disappearing group of three as they approached a medium-sized passenger ship with lounge tables and scattered chairs on the upper deck.

The dockmaster and two other bruisers turned away awkwardly, trying to pretend that the conversation wasn't taking place.

"Look, you're new, I get it," Xyran answered matter-of-factly as he continued looking down the ramp. "You asked me for help earlier, I'm giving it to you now. Just observe your surroundings, mind your business and you'll be fine here."

Anna continued turning back with her head every few steps, shooting Isurith glances that were unreadable given the distance and the fact that her sunglasses were back on. The retired sentinel watched as her disturbed compatriot was led up the ramp onto the passenger ship and then below decks, the dock workers quickly untying the ropes anchoring the ship to the pier as numerous well-dressed individuals from the upper deck also entered the door leading below.

"I found someone that might want to talk to you," the stone-faced bruiser said while still watching the ship cast off. "There was a guy today asking about plants or something. He runs a greenhouse in one of the upper ridge neighborhoods and is trying to grow some herbs native to Nightsong Forest but was having trouble identifying what he's been given. I told him I would find you, but you'll need to get moving now if you want to work."

Her eyes lingering on the ship as it left the harbor, Isurith finally turned and followed the helpful little man, her heart torn at her inability to get involved. She didn't entirely understand what she had just seen, but she knew that her sister elf was distraught and that she didn't do anything to help.

"Thank you, mister Gyroblast," Isurith said congenially though with a hint of distress in her voice. The two of them walked together, making awkward small talk as the both of them tried to put the whole incident out of their minds.

Isurith walked along the boardwalk, accessing the ramp to the upper ridge of Booty Bay's urban sprawl. As she sought out a one-time-only job that she felt was beneath her, the optimism she had woken up with was slightly damaged by the realization that life in this city - even if there was no turning back, no failing a second time - would be much more difficult than she had previously thought.

**A/N: For those wondering about the fate of poor Anna or even where life takes Xyran...think of how many people you pass by each day. A lot, right? You know very few of them. Isurith/Cecilia passes by many in Booty Bay, but only two are named. As a general rule, if I give a character a name, you can expect to see them again. It may not be in the same continuum; it could end up as a oneshot in an upcoming story I have that's just a series of oneshots, or as an appearance in another main character's story. But they aren't abandoned, not even the bad ones (even Heralath).**


	16. TheSpiral

**A/N: Similar disclaimer to chapter two; this story is a romance at the root of it. However, there are parts which contain violence, drug usage and my first attempt at horror. Just a warning.**

* * *

_Six years and two months ago._

The ventilation was poor in the musty single room suite of the inn. The paint on the walls had obviously been peeling for quite a long time, and was perhaps even older than the mildew stains on the ceiling. The dust-covered blinds over the only window allowed just enough light to enter the room for the torn, damp couch to be visible against the wall next to the cracked teak door. Aside from some unwashed clothing and a green canvas travel bag strewn on the floor, there was nothing substantial to speak of in front of the couch. Behind it was an assortment of half-empty bottles, expired food and paper waste. The noise of the Booty Bay boardwalk didn't quite filter up from three storeys below, and the man's grunting was all Isurith could hear.

Standing over her splayed figure, he rested one knee on the couch as he finished buckling the belt of trousers the color of which she couldn't quite determine in the odd mixture of light and dark in the room. He pulled down his wool shirt which appeared to be white with a blue strip around the bottom hem and ran his index finger along her collar bone before standing all the way up. She pulled a dress that she didn't remember owning back down as she remained sitting, not yet feeling sober enough to stand with such little energy left.

"Do you have any of those fried scallops left in the box?" he asked, his fel green eyes ignoring her entirely as he tried to peek back behind the couch. His naturally blonde hair was greasy and seemed as though he hadn't showered for a few days.

While she failed to remember his name, her full stomach remembered the seafood he had paid for and her brain vaguely remembered the insufferable one-sided conversation about his work which she somehow suffered through. In her mind, she had earned those scallops.

"Get your shoes and get out," Isurith ordered tersely.

She didn't even bother looking up. How or why she had brought him back to the inn in the middle of the afternoon, she could not remember. The bourbon on her tongue overrode the aftertaste of the scallops. She wondered how early in the day it was.

_::SMASH::_

"HEY!" she shouted as she flinched from a heavy, frightening thud half a foot from her head on the wall behind the couch.

Shards of glass tumbled down onto the seat of the couch to her left and the shattering noise led her to think that one of them had stolen a wine glass and brought it there to the room. Any instincts she would have once had to beat her interlocutor into a pulp were tamed now. Instead, Isurith merely shut her eyes even tighter and bowed her head down toward her knees while clutching a dress she suspected wasn't really hers.

Isurith could feel the heat of his anger burning down on her, the spurned man weighing his options. Too afraid to look up, she awaited his reaction.

"Fuck you," he muttered as she heard his footsteps leaving off to the right.

After a few more seconds, she heard the door open and shut and she looked around the room. The opposite wall stretched as it grew away from her quickly, reminding her that she was not sober just yet. It couldn't be any later than early afternoon.

She leaned back against the couch, wondering what she would have done just a year ago. The self-hatred rolled in again as the has-been, a former champion among her sister sentinels, cursed herself for flinching in fear from a male. She should have lifted him above her head and slammed him into the wall, should have snapped his arms like twigs, should have taken the glass and pounded on his nose with it until the extremity was pushed back into his skull.

But she didn't do any of those things. She shrank away like a coward, once again reminding herself that hanging up her weapons for good was a free choice she had made on her own.

Reaching down on the floor for her underwear, she peered into the unwashed clothes in front of her to see if there were any light pants she could wear. In the dark, she saw what appeared to be off-white cotton pants that were only slightly weathered at the hem of the ankles. The dress she was wearing appeared to be pink with floral patterns around the midsection; it should work for now. Dressing herself, she checked behind the couch and noticed that one of the bottles was clearly unfinished, watered down bourbon. Kneeling on the floor, she managed to reach back and snatch it, sipping the small amount remaining as she looked for spare change.

Finding nothing of value, she collected the rest of the unwashed clothes and put them in the travel bag, strapping it to her back as she walked over to the door and stepped outside. The rough feeling of the wooden hallway floor reminded her that she was barefoot, and she looked back into the room. A pair of tacky blue thong sandals were next to the door, having previosly been unviewable directly under a ray of light shining in from the window. Slipping them on, she locked the door as she exited and swing the key around her middle and index finger by the string.

Down the hall, there were very loud conversations taking place behind the doors of some of the other rooms; otherwise, the inn was eerily quiet. She didn't quite remember when she had checked in; lodging seemed to make up about half the business in Booty Bay and there wasn't anything particularly remarkable about the peeling, sickly yellow paint on the walls of this building. All the hostels and motels tended to mesh into one another in memory.

Downstairs, Isurith eyed the door opposite the staircase and the bar counter off to the left. There were at least five people seated at various scattered dark brown chairs and tables crammed far too close to each other for comfort in the bottom floor of the inn. The walls were devoid of any paintings or decorations, giving the entire place a very cheap feel.

Isurith still couldn't remember if she had already paid or not, and given that she had no cash she didn't want to find out. Before she had even made it halfway to the swinging double doors opening onto the boardwalk outside, a goblin bruiser to her right had already held up his iron mace in front of her as a warning to hold still. She hadn't even noticed the short green man there a few seconds ago.

"Your friend said you would foot the bill," the barkeep asserted without even an introduction. Isurith's eyes grew wide with anger as she realized the man she had shown up with had left without paying.

"The stay was twenty-five silver, sweetheart," bellowed the barkeep from the opposite end of the room. She was only a few feet from the doors now, but even someone as tall as Isurith knew better than to incur the wrath of the Steamwheedle security enforcers.

Fingering the gaudy necklace she had been wearing for at least two months - she didn't remember where or how she got it - she cleared her throat, but found her post nasal drip too severe for her to speak yet.

"Hand it over to the bruiser," the barkeep instructed. Without even taking one more look around the room, she pulled the necklace up over her head and placed it in the goblin's outstretched hand as she walked out onto the boardwalk.

Shielding her eyes from the middsay sun with her hands, she was able to see the entire developed bay now as she stood on the third wooden walkway up the side of the rocky ledge lining the bay on the dryside. Booty Bay was enormous, people from all the various nations and peoples of the world congregating there to do business. Urban sprawl had pushed the development above and all the way onto the flat surface of the raised rock surrounding the bay. The last internal road was still about a mile back into the jungle since the economic boom a few years prior, and what was once merely a pirate cove was now a metropolis large enough to get lost in.

People passed Isurith on both sides as she walked over to a moldy umbrella propped up against the railing overlooking the bay itself. At least there she would be in the shade. She would need peace of mind to figure out what she could do next.

Currently, she had no money and no food. Shelter would be an issue as well. There were quite a few shops lining this end of the boardwalk, door after door after door leading to some nondescript, non-unique business selling its wares. The rows of establishments were all a homogenous blur, none of them standing out to Isurith or even appearing distinct from one another.

Glancing down the boardwalk past a trio of giggling gnolls, she spied a familiar face. Among a mixed-race group of members of the Alliance about ten yards behind the gnolls, she saw a slender human wearing a sleeveless light pink dress she had recognized, most likely from a random bar crawl one night. The group seemed to be talking casually and laughing as they enjoyed their stroll. Isurith's heart rate increased along with the sly smile spreading across her face; this could be an opportunity for food or money.

Running her hand through her unwashed hair, Isurith approached the oncoming group, trying to will the human to look her way. The group of women couldn't help but notice the seven-and-a-half foot elf in front of them, and the human made eye contact. That was enough.

"Hey, it's been a while, you!" Isurith cooed as she cocked her head to the side while she feigned interest. "We've met a few times, right?"

Through her blurred, sunlight-impaired vision, she could see that the rest of the group consisted of two dwarves and a high elf. The human woman seemed to immediately recognize the tall elf, who stood out for obvious reasons.

"Iriside, it's sooo good to see you again," the human replied with too much enthusiasm for it to be genuine. "How have you been? Have you heard about the ladies' night at Benny's Bend this evening?" The entire group was looking up to the disheveled Amazon in awe.

Jackpot. Free drinks are often accompanied by free food. And inebriated people possibly meant friends or acquaintances she could crash with for the next few days.

"Well, I know now!" she chirped with theatrical skills that could have landed her a job on the stage. If she could ever hold a job without snapping at patrons. "I certainly hope to meet you all there."

After chatting politely with the group for a moment, they went their separate ways. This day was starting to get a little better; perhaps she would even wake up on a couch or a bed that she didn't even have to share with several other people tomorrow morning. It would still be hours until a ladies' night event would start up; in the meantime, Isurith needed to head to the food hawkers' area and see how many free samples she could eat before being asked to leave again.

* * *

Benny's had a low ceiling which always made Isurith a bit uncomfortable. There were a few protruding support beams that she would have to duck under, and considering the amount of alcohol in her system, the ducking would be quite a task. The planks forming the walls, floor and ceiling appeared to be some sort of light brown color though she couldn't be entirely sure her eyes weren't playing tricks on her again. All of the thirty someodd chairs were occupied, along with the out-of-place ruby red couch Isurith found herself seated upon. Almost every race of Azeroth seemed to be represented that night, all brought together by the promise of live music and cheap (free in the case of the female patrons) beer.

Sitting in the middle of the couch with the small human from earlier, Isurith downed another cheap generic beer as the high elf next to her remained fixated on her bust while she drank. A few more men and women had pulled up chairs in front of the couch - she had finally seen double for the first time that evening and no longer trusted her ability to count - and there were three seperate conversations going on.

At no point had the opportunity come up to check on who had a spare couch or even place on the floor of their rooms for her to stay. Pretending to be interested or even understand what they were saying had taken its toll, and the nauseous feeling in her stomach was eroding her patience. Being the center of attention was the last thing she needed.

"Irthiyide here is from Darnassus!" exclaimed the skinny human sitting next to her. "She is an expert on moon gardens."

Several pairs of eyes focused on Isurith now. It was a task to force herself into a speaking mood as a blue-haired gnome of indeterminable gender leaned forward. "What's a moon garden?"

Bullshit had become her second language, but the quesy feeling increased as soon as she tried to speak.

"It's, uh...a place where we grow mageweave cloth. It comes out of the ground like wheat. And...five minutes."

Isurith had forgotten that her travel bag was still strapped to her back, and it smacked the lecherous high elf in the face as she quickly rose and walked away from the group. Squeezing her way between chairs and tables that had been pushed far too close together, she distinctly felt someone brush up against her thigh while pretending to not see her. What would once have pushed her to drop a boot to the guy's skull was simply ignored as she fought her way to the front door. The restrooms at Benny's had the advantage of running water powered by a mechanically pressurized system - still a new technology in the more advanced cities of Azeroth - they had the disadvantage of being in a separate structure outside on the edge of a small stream in the very back end of the Booty Bay metropolitan area, the wild jungle lining the other side of the polluted stream.

Stumbling across the cobblestone sidewalk toward the small bathroom building, she was immediately hit by the stench of urine wafting out from the only open door. The fact that the structure was right against the edge of the stream allowed the waste to be pumped directly into the flowing water, though like any bar restroom the smell was fetid. The space between the rest of the sidewalk and the stream was covered in grass and lillies, but within two feet of the structure the greenery turned to a dead brown. As a night elf, the sight should hurt her heart, though in her state she was never concerned about much more than finding food and shelter day-to-day.

Not wanting to soil her travel bag, she dropped it on the ground right next to the corner of the structure before she went in. Looking back toward the bar, she saw nobody hanging around to raise her suspicions. She had to round a corner around the wing of the building that served as the kitchen, thus blocking her view of the bar's entrance. As she walked into the open door of the bathroom stall, her sandals squeaked on the slightly damp and muddy floor. The lock was broken on that stall so she only shut the door slightly; it could not close all the way and would swing open anyway. The air inside was even more humid and the mirror was slightly foggy. The entire stall was perhaps eight by eight feet wide, containing only a toilet and a sink with the mirror above the sink. There was no garbage can and all waste had to either be thrown onto the floor or in the toilet. Or sometimes in the sink.

Bending down over the sink - the seatless toilet was just a bit much - Isurith pulled her hair back and hurled almost insantaneously. It was painful and she felt the muscles in the soles of her feet cramp as her entire body strained. The smell in the bathroom was already so bad that losing her stomach in the sink didn't make things any worse. Gasping over the sink, she waited a few more moments to see if anything else was to come.

Over the flow of the stream and the music from the bar, she distinctly heard another woman weeping behind her. Ignoring it, she waited for her heart rate to slow down. Isurith felt surprisingly better after expelling much of what she had drunk so far that night. She jumped slightly but didn't look up when she felt the woman poke her on the back, obviously not willing to wait her turn. Drunks sauntering right into the bathroom stall wasn't a new thing and she had done it herself on a few occasions.

When the pained voice spoke in a choked voice, Isurith's skin crawled.

"My babies...you took me away from them..."

Rising slowly, Isurith prepared herself to possibly shove off a drunk orc that had just been dumped. The mirror was too foggy to get a good look though the red garment the woman was wearing could be seen.

"Why did you hate me, elf queen?"

Isurith's heart froze as her eyes grew wide. The voice sounded far too familiar. Before she could process what was happening, Isurith was swung around with such force that she heard a rip from her dress. The sound was muffled by her own screaming.

The blood from the orc's neck had spilled over its peon's tabard, soaking it an even deeper shade of crimson. The flesh was torn open and bone spurs could be seen in the gore and meat hanging out in a disgusting reminder of battlefield injuries. Her eyes occupied too much of the surface area of her face, but the clear sensation of the orc's fingers in Isurith's wrists proved to her that this wasn't a dream.

Absolute terror filled her as she wondered how this person could still be speaking. This must have been an undead, there was no other explanation for it. The way the orc spoke as if she knew Isurith was paralyzingly scary.

"Why did you hate my family?" The last few words were _screamed_ as the orc's jaw appeared to unhinge and open far too wide, her long tongue snaking out. Isurith fought to pull her wrists out of the orc's grasp but she was so afraid that she couldn't coordinate her movements. The tongue lapped at Isurith's lips as the eyes bulged out even further, and Isurith screamed this time as her feet started to slip in the mud on the bathroom floor.

It shouldn't be real, yet the sensation of the tongue climbing into her mouth proved to her that this was real. Every muscle in her body tensed and began quaking as the level of panic caused her literal nausea all over again, the weight of the horror too much for Isurith's mind to bear. It was the most frightening situation of her long life, the level of fear making her wish she could die to escape from it; her screams were loud and frantic.

At the sides of her head, she could feel the small fingers of children quickly wiggling as they grasped at her temples, trying to pull her backward. They were hiding behind the sink, wedged between it and the wall as their arms cracked and elongated disgustingly to try and pull her backwards.

"Nooorrggghhh," she choked out as the tongue moved down her throat, making it difficult for her to breathe. This was real. This was one-hundred percent real, even if she didn't have a logical explanation for it. Her fear took control as she cried for it all to be over, biting down onto the snake-like tongue as mortal terror gripped her very soul.

The force of being slammed back into the tile between the sink and the left wall jolted Isurith back to her senses. One of her sandals twisted around, causing her heel to smear across the damp floor as she slipped and sank to the tiles in a heap, a barely detectable taste of copper on her tongue.

"You bit _hard_, what the hell," the human sailor shouted as he held one hand on his mouth and used the other hand to hold the door closed. The anger in his voice scared Isurith as she began to realize she was back in the bathroom again, and this time was with a stranger, unaware of how this had started. "You almost took a piece of my tongue off you fucking psycho!"

Leaning her entire right arm against the wall and placing her other hand on her knee, Isurith tried to stand up, her vision back with her now though still impaired due to the light in the bathroom. Before she could rise up all the way, her body was jarred again by a swift punch to her ribs that was weak but came as enough of a surprise to cause her to bend over while clutching at her waist. Everything was happening so fast that she wasn't able to shake the panic as her mind raced to comprehend what was happening to her.

"Aahhh," she exhaled quickly as the wind was knocked out of her with another punch to the body. She was being attacked. Someone was trying to hurt her intentionally. Try as she might, she couldn't remember who, or how he had followed her into the bathroom. The apparition of Olsa was still flickering in the mirror as she tried to get a grip on reality.

Two hands yanked her sensitive ears as she was shoved back down again, the identity of her assailant difficult to see due to the angle. He was wearing a pair of slightly baggy black pants often associated with sailors and deckhands, and his black leather boots didn't appear to be cheap. She looked up only to see a loose white button-up shirt tucked into his pants and the pink fist flying toward her.

"Ow," she shouted again as another weak, drunken punch connected. This time it was into her cheek, defiling those once elegant cheekbones with a quickly spreading bruise. The back of her head was knocked against the tile wall by the force, not hard enough to daze her but enough for her to realize she was in danger. Her fear wouldn't lighten its grip on her as she began to experience difficulty sensing which was was up and which way was down.

The split seconds were not long enough for her to try and remember the attire or the voice; she had gone to the bathroom to vomit, had some sort of a seizure and was now being assaulted by a drunken sailor. There was no memory, no context to the situation at all.

Without moving her hands to protect her face, the washed-up warrior glanced up again, waiting to see if the man was turning to leave or not. A part of her wanted it to continue. Wanted her to be punished for all the evil she had done, for the innocent people she had murdered, for the families she had destroyed...for her own family she had destroyed. Being beaten senseless in a bathroom with noone to help felt fitting to her guilty conscience.

A disgusting, abhorrent voice in the very back of her mind hissed at her. I want this, it tried to say to the man. Hit me. Hurt me. Defile me. I _deserve_ this. Her heart screamed no, over and over again pleading for her body to fight back and make it stop. Isurith was ripped in half as her inner self waged a civil war.

The human was at least a foot and a half shorter than Isurith, and his lack of power insinuated that he wasn't someone with combat experience. Perhaps that made it easier to accept the abuse and cower in a corner again, humiliating her own self by allowing this to happen. There was no real danger of being permanently damaged; only punished for being what a miserable, despicable _murderer_ she was.

She cried out as his fist collided with her cheek again despite the pain and the sailor's strength both being unimpressive. Her sense of self-preservation fought hard against her desire to be punished, the internal battle paralyzing her body.

"You think this is a game, you half-nickel wench?" the sailor shouted as he wrapped his hands around her neck. The logical side gaining ground, Isurith at least grabbed on to his wrists, preventing him from actually choking her though not removing his grip entirely as he pulled up and forced her to stand against the wall in a hunched position.

Leaning back, she pulled her neck away as she turned into the wall, the sink and mirror coming into view. Despite weighing at least one-hundred pounds less than Isurith, the sailor tried shoving her into the wall ineffectively. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the mirror. There was no undead orc trying to take its revenge, no demonic children tearing at her eyes; she was in a filthy bathroom being assaulted by a drunken sailor whose desire and source of anger was unknown to her. Something had happened during her episode, something that led to this situation, but it was likely lost to her forever.

The sailor grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her around. "Do you understand Common?" he hissed with an open-handed slap to her face.

The question triggered something, some disrespectful event that had infuriated her last year. Blood coursed through her veins more quickly as her indignance took control. Memories of being laughed at in a city full of ignorant humans flashed before her eyes as her desire to be punished was torn away by her desire to punish.

The sailor was gone. In his place was an armored Theramore guard, his grubby hands on the loose folds of her dress.

Coming back to at least some of her senses, the fight burned in Isurith's eyes as she launched her much smaller assailant across the bathroom. His back slammed into the opposite wall from the sudden force of the down-but-not-out veteran reacting defensively. His legs hadn't followed all the way over as the back of his heels slammed against the toilet which was so disgusting that no amount of descriptors in any language could have quite captured its putrid existence. He cried out as a loud crack was heard, the rim of the toilet chipping and most likely, some of the bones in his feet as well. His rear end sank straight down into the seatless bowl, his hands swiping around for something to grab ahold of and raise himself out.

Hunching over him now, Isurith stuck her right elbow against his entire face and leaned in with her much greater weight, some semblance of a fighter's instinct taking over. The armored guard fishhooked her with his hand, sticking his fingers in her mouth and grabbing on to the inside of her cheek in an attempt to pull her off of him. The copper taste returned to her mouth as she sank her fangs into his index and middle fingers.

"Aarrrgh! Help! Help! She's rabid! She's foaming at the mouth!"

His thumb stuck in her eye caused her to release the guard's shredded fingers, his blood filling her mouth. She was straddling him on the toilet now, trapping him so he couldn't get up and could only flail around helplessly.

Pressing the palm of her other hand against the side of his head next to her elbow, she forced his skull to the right and straight into the tile wall of the bathroom.

"Help! Somebody! Hel-"

::_CRACK::_

A second shove shattered the tile on the wall as the human sailor slumped down, sandwiched down into what must have been the devil's toilet. Isurith stood quickly and fell with her back against the opposite wall, trying to catch her breath. All was quiet in the bathroom now and she was finally able to collect what little coherent thought was left in her brain.

"What...don't...owe you money," she panted without realizing what she was saying. The words came out of her mouth, yet they didn't feel like hers.

Looking down, both the orc terrors and the Theramore guard were gone; nothing but a ragged, totally blasted elf and an unconscious sailor wedged into the Devil's toilet. She didn't recognize this man, and either her drunkeness or her psychology blotted out the man's facial features; she literally wouldn't be able to describe his face even as she gazed upon it.

Knowing herself and her condition, Isurith couldn't be sure who was the instigator. He could have followed her in and attacked her, or she could have dragged him in and bit him unprovoked in her desire to be beaten; it wouldn't be the first time for either scenario during the past eight months. She couldn't prove what happened either way, and the sailor might very well have friends; she only had shallow acquaintances who were uninterested in her wellbeing, only wanting a unique, exotic companion to attract more attention during parties and tavern crawls. Standing up, she looked like a mess. Her sandals, feet and the bottom of her cotton pants were damp and slightly muddy.

Moving over to the mirror, she saw that her face looked like hell. Her left cheek was already starting to bruise and her entire chin, her lips and part of the skin around her mouth were smeared with his blood. Not wanting to risk rinsing her mouth with whatever liquid would come from the sink, she leaned down and wiped most of the blood from her face onto the sailor's shirt. She still looked rough and nobody who saw her like this would believe anything she claimed about what had transpired.

Turning to leave, she stopped when she noticed the light brown felt pouch on the belt of the folded-up, motionless sailor in the toilet bowl. Isurith didn't know who was at fault, she didn't know how this had started, she didn't know if she really deserved the beating or not, but she knew that she was hungry. The sailor could obviously work and get more; she needed food and a place to sleep. Resorting to theft once again, she snatched the pouch, felt the coins inside and stuck it into the pocket of her cotton pants.

The moment she exited the bathroom, she could already hear the sound of approaching voices and footsteps from the direction of Benny's.

"And then they were like, you know?"

"Like, they were, yeah?"

"Why does my hand have ten fingers..."

There were at least four drunk people, males and females of different races. Panic rushed through Isurith's entire body as she tried to collect her thoughts. She was an imposingly tall warrior woman with fangs covered in blood and eyes that glowed. There was an unconscious sailor stuffed into a toilet with his coinpurse missing and his fingers shredded. If he was a sailor in a port city, he would have friends. Isurith had no one, and even after vomiting there was still so much alcohol in her system that she likely couldn't explain her situation properly. More images of Theramore flashed through her head as the voices grew nearer.

She couldn't fight off all of them nor could she convince them that she was the victim in this situation, so she did the only other thing she could think of. The corner leading to Benny's was to the right of where she was standing; to the left, the cobblestone sidewalk inclined upward, a railing protecting anyone from falling to the stream below lining its own left side. The right side of the path was lined by the back ends of warehouses and storage units for as far as she could see. It was dark, empty and long. Just as the voices were rounding the corner, she shadowmelded and ran.

* * *

She had already made it down more blocks of abandoned buildings than she could count before she realized that she had forgotten her travel bag and all her spare clothing with it; given that the incapacitated sailor had likely already been discovered, there was no way to retrieve it now.

Finally alone, Isurith clutched her own elbows and hugged herself as she walked down the unlit pathway, preferring the solitude of the darkness. She walked at a snail's pace, but she still walked, knowing that she would get nowhere by standing still. Many of the buildings around her now were abandoned; she was at the very back edge of Booty Bay's easternmost street. There were occasionally empty shacks on the left side of the pathway now too, overlooking the stream which was many yards below the railing. A few alleyways could be seen to the right, empty breaks between the empty buildings devoid even of any rats or garbage cans.

"One year..." she murmured to herself in disappointment.

One year since she had left Kalimdor. She had written a single letter to Unelia on her second day in the city, telling her sister of her plans. Telling her sister how she would find herself in the former pirate cove like so many people of different races had. Telling her sister that she would make a name for herself as a translator and interpreter, using her knowledge of Darnassian, Thalassian, Nazja, Common, Ursine and Orcish. Telling her sister that she would meet so many people from different places, different cultures, so many different friends. Telling her sister that she would be able to do something with her life she could be proud of, something other than war and killing. She sighed into the wind as she continued to walk, realizing that after a whole year she had failed to achieve anything.

Not once during that year had Isurith had to sleep outside. Booty Bay was much more difficult than she had imagined, though. There weren't job offerings simply being posted on billboards and knowing where to apply was nearly impossible unless you knew somebody who knew somebody, or didn't mind accepting the ridiculously low wages and dangerous working conditions recruiters were offering at the docks. The bar scene had been so much easier. Shallow, uncaring people were easy to get along with; finding work as a waitress had been easy once Isurith learned that binge drinking leads to weak but quickly built bonds between people. The lifestyle of partying she now lived, with people she barely even knew, was expensive; what money she had brought with her from working the goblin ship from Kalimdor was quickly squandered and the income from working at various restaurants and taverns wouldn't have been enough for renting an actual apartment even if she _hadn't_ been jumping from workplace to workplace every few weeks.

Renting rooms at an inn became splitting rooms at an inn, which became splitting beds at an inn, which became crashing at other people's room at an inn, which became dependence on the will of a string of inebriated, anonymous and lustful men and, in some cases, women. Isurith had been without work for over a month and every day was a struggle to scrape up enough coin for food. And now, for the first time in a year, she began scanning what few grassy areas there were between the abandoned buildings and the cobblestone sidewalk for a semi-comfortable place to get some rest out on the street.

There was another wide gap between buildings to her left, the sound of the stream trickling below carrying over the railing. It was dark enough that she wouldn't be seen but could herself see a bit of nature in the polluted metropolis.

The view of the rainforest in southern Stranglethorn Vale was incredible. It reminded her of how her mother had once described Feralas to her several millenia ago. There was a strong breeze as the trees waved back and forth in the wind.

Isurith pulled something out of her pocket and leaned on the railing with her elbows. Even in her bleakest moments, the sorrow of reliving the past couldn't quite overpower the joy of remembering what she still had. Holding the crumpled family portrait in her hands, she whimpered slightly as she wondered what they were all doing now.

Her neice Corrianna should have turned three years old a few months ago and was likely jabbering away in two different languages. She imagined what the little girl's birthday party would have been like. She wondered if anyone would have asked Unelia why the girl's aunt wasn't there. She wondered so many things she...

"No wait!" she shrieked frantically at nobody in particular as a sudden updraft blew by.

The portrait was snatched from her hands, floating in circles away from her as the wind pushed the top of the tropical canopy toward the east. It may as well have been a piece of her heart being stolen from her, the wind mocking her as the picture of the loving family she had torn apart now being torn from her grasp.

"Wait! Wait!"

Isurith didn't even realize she had said that out loud as she draped one leg over the railing, reaching out in futility at the only connection she still had to her past. The photo had already moved the entire thirty yards over the stream and above the canopy of the jungle below now, disappearing into the night.

Isurith turned away from the sight, not wanting to watch the photo leaving her any longer as she slumped with her back against the railing and sank to the grass. She buried her face in her hands as her teeth ground together, an intense, unpleasant sort of cold seeping into the back of her neck as the muscles tensed. She didn't know how long it had been when she heard the woman's voice.

"You look like you need a place where you can unwind," the short, stout humanoid purred.

Looking up, Isurith saw that the woman's skin color would be considered sickly by the standards of dwarves, the dark circles under her eyes barely visible in the combination of the night sky's darkness and the light from the open doorway across the sidewalk, opposite from the railing. Straining her eyes to see through her alcohol-blurred vision, she noticed the open door, light, unprofessional music and sloppily painted sign typical of traveler's hostels that provided room and board with bunkmates for a discounted rate. She was so tired, so distraught that she was beyond the point of negotiating prices or inquiring about amenities; she just wanted a spot to sleep in away from all the threatening characters with ulterior motives. Paying for a place to stay, spending money, was a way to guarantee some semblance of safety.

Keeping her balance despite her intoxicated state, Isurith stood up and brushed off her dress and pants with her hands. As bad as this part of town seemed, she knew that a person displaying kindness - sincerely or not - was an opportunity for food and shelter if she were lucky.

"It's been a long night," the tall night elf answered, forgetting that there was still a small amount of another person's blood smeared on her face.

"Perhaps you'd like to come inside for a bit," the dwarf said with a smile, her yellowed teeth flashing briefly. "My friends and I make it our duty to take in the downtrodden, and to help them get back on their feet."

Her usual caution failed her. "I love meeting new people," Isurith answered, trying to sound as sweet as possible. She was still hungry; perhaps this is just another group of people fascinated by their first encounter with a Kaldorei and would want to share a meal and ask her a hundred and one pointless questions like so many other natives to the Eastern Kingdoms. She followed the dwarf, chatting about the various interesting tenants, meals offered and other likely false details of staying at the establishment.

As they walked through the door, a goblin sentry held his hand out and Isurith placed ten of her stolen silver coins in it without thinking. Cover charges were normal at many of these run-down bed and breakfast places, and the fact that this place had originally been a residential home rather than a bar helped her lower her defenses a bit. The lights were dim in the anteroom, and a large shoeshelf contained the footwear of everyone who had entered. She stored her sandals and followed the dwarf down a narrow hall with aged carpet, the white paint of the walls covered in stains here and there. Squeezing past a draenei couple pressing each other against one wall of the hallway, Isurith was able to spy people engaged in various scenes she didn't quite understand through the doors leading to rooms off on the sides. Her people were so restrained and refined, and they weren't used to these cramped quarters either. The mixture of light and dark affected her vision, as it usually did, and she wasn't able to correctly determine the exact colors of the textures, articles of clothing, pieces of furniture and bared skin she saw around her.

"This way," the dwarf said over her own shoulder as she motioned for Isurith to continue following. The house was huge, with its winding hallway containing doors to an inordinate number of small rooms. At the very end, there was a door to the right that was slightly closed.

The dwarf swung around to face the night elf. "You can stay here and relax for the night. I'm sure the others will be happy to meet you."

Without another word, she walked back from where they came. The hallway was empty now, and the amount of combined white noise from all the dimly lit rooms made it difficult to discern one conversation from another. Several people upstairs were playing musical instruments and singing out of key. Peeking back toward the entrance, Isurith saw no trace of the dwarf woman who had led her there. The two draenei were actually pulling each others' clothes off in the middle of the hallway and she stumbled back around the corner.

Isurith knocked on the slightly open door, but heard no response from the other side. After a few seconds, she walked in quietly. The room was small, cramped and dimly lit. She immediately noticed a long couch to her right which she thought was brown or blue - her eyes were lying to her now - with an unconscious tauren woman wearing leather breeches and a red dress that conflicted with the shade of her fur. A man and a woman who were either live humans or undead Forsaken sat cross legged on the floor in front of the tauren's couch and a pile of laundry, blankets and bedrolls sat in the corner behind said couch. To her left against the wall was a small table with various bottles of liquid and half-eaten sandwiches on it.

As she continued to scan the room, she saw a closet on the left wall with the door hanging open and a pair of legs sticking out; she didn't want to know what else was in there. Directly in front of her was another couch with a smiling half-elf wearing a plain, nondescript short sleeved shirt and pants the same color as the carpet, her narrow eyes holding a slightly green glow to them.

"Are you the new guest?" the half-elf asked in Common.

Not quite sure how to behave when so close to a member of the Horde passed out on the next couch and two more people on the floor who might be Horde, Isurith only nodded. The half-elf patted her hand on the couch cushion next to her. Somehow, Isurith found herself seated next to the strange woman without having walked over there. A quick pang of dizziness hit her head as she tried to count how many free drinks she had at Benny's.

"We should all get acquainted then," the half-elf continued. A rolled cigarette which Isurith hadn't noticed in the half-elf's hand before was offered to her, and she took a puff before handing it back. Rather than relaxing her, it caused her heart to suddenly race in a way that felt unnatural. Her weary mind became worried as she realized it was something other than marijuana.

The half-elf noticed the night elf's widened eyes. "Not what you're used to, hun?" she asked.

"No, it's...ok. And thank you. I've had a bad night is all." If she were to be sharing this small room with these people, she couldn't afford to be as guarded as usual and risk being seen as rude. Her heart wouldn't slow down, which gave her the energy to talk more.

"Marrilyn, why don't you give our new roomie here something to calm her nerves?" the half-elf directed toward the sullen female seated on the floor. Isurith still couldn't tell if the humanoids on the floor were alive or undead, they looked so zombie-like with their dirtied bathrobes.

The female looked toward Isurith. "You sure that you're into this kind of relaxation?"

The badly played music was getting to the large Kaldorei's head, pounding away as she fought off all the white noise filling her ears and her own drunkenness to listen to the question. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor in a circle with the half-elf and the two humanoids now when she had been on the couch answering a question just a half-second before. Her mind wasn't retaining everything that was happening.

Isurith watched as the humanoid male drew a heated substance from a dish in his lap into a syringe in his hand. The technology was unlike anything she had ever seen; it was like a hollow sewing needle connected to a tiny canister of liquid. It reminded her of a silithid stinger.

The female humanoid was passed out and leaning back against the couch. The door had somehow been shut. A rubber strap was fastened around Isurith's arm. Everything was happening too fast. Things were disappearing from her short-term memory. The entire universe was crushing her and she just wanted to relax and sleep in this new room she could afford to stay in for at least a few days.

"Hun," called the half-elf sitting next to her. The drunk and high night elf turned with her bright, shining silver eyes to meet the faded fel green.

"Once you open this door...it will never be closed." The dull, weak glow of the half-elf's eyes failed to convey the message to the night elf.

Isurith nodded, indicating her consent. Taking her wrist in one of his hands, the humanoid male put the syringe near her vein.

There was no prick, no pain at all as the humanoid held still in a disconcerting way. None of the other guests in the room seem to have noticed that a space had opened up between the floor and the far wall. The stream from out behind the railing entered the room, seeping into the carpet while it spilled even further toward her.

She slept the best sleep she ever had.


	17. Moment of Clarity

**A/N: Some violence, language and adult situations lie ahead.**

* * *

_Five and a half years ago._

The air was unusually cool in the Cape of Stranglethorn Vale that morning, with a humid mist blanketing most of the lower reaches of Booty Bay. Visibility was low on the second-level wood plank boardwalk, though given that so few shops were operating it wasn't a huge issue. Life was mostly at night in the former pirate cove, and only a handful of stores selling provisions and restaurants offering fast-cooked meals had their doors open.

The furthest reaches of the second level boardwalk were tucked away against the sheer rock wall of the cove, a series of cheaper outlets, pawn shops and abandoned units with ageing 'for rent' signs on the broken windows blocking out both view of the rock wall and the bay on the other side of the outer row of shops. The ceiling was low, and the third level of the boardwalk hung only eight feet above the floor of the second. There weren't enough garbage cans for the number of shops - even with a number of them being abandoned - and the occasional bag or refuse pile could be found in the small alcoves between the buildings.

Two uniformed restaurant workers, a human and an orc, trotted down the boardwalk toward one of the few cleaning supply stores that were open that time of morning. They spoke in Common, and given the focused yet jovial nature of their work-related conversation it was clear that the almighty gold coin had overridden any sort of factional loyalties they once held. The supply store was around the bend and difficult to see from their vantage point, especially given that the interior was unlit despite being open for business.

Neither of them noticed the homeless vagrant which had appeared passed out behind a garbage can at the bend, mistaking it for a pile of rags. An unsteady hand reached out and dug its fingers between two planks of the boardwalk, pulling the body outward from the alcove between a closed shop for used guns and another abandoned storehouse with broken windows. The fog had settled so low that the discolored, torn clothing which might have appeared to be moving on its own was simply invisible, or at most would appear to be a discarded beach towel.

It wasn't until the two restaurant workers had come up to the curving bend in the boardwalk that the realized they weren't alone.

A single hand reached up and tugged at the orc's pant leg, shocking both companions.

"Eeeek!" the orc squealed. "It's touching me, it's touching me!" There was a combination of both disgust and sarcasm in his voice.

"Change?" a thick voice rasped from underneath the rags.

Moving to defend his meek friend, the human stepped forward and kicked the vagrant's other arm out from under, depriving the only thing keeping the pile of rags and matted down hair propped up.

"Get a job, scum!" he scolded with a waggling brunette mustache.

The vagrant rolled to the side, unable to crawl back up. Both uniformed workers started away, though not before the orc turned his head to the side and spit on the living pile of rags. Raucus laughter could be heard as they two cracked some jokes about life choices and quickly forgot the while incident.

Passing by the two heartless restauranteurs as they exited the cleaning supply store were two maids. Barely visible in the mist, it was clear that they were uniformed, each carrying a sack of cleaning supplies strapped to her back and one was taller than the other.

"This what I don' be gettin' mon," the taller woman said in Common but with a trollish accent, "how they gotta be chargin' so much for liquid soap this month?"

"Sweetie, you know they're just looking for excuses," the shorter figure answered with that familiar, wisecracking tone the goblins used. "I don't believe for one second that-"

"Wait!" the lanky troll answered, her two-toed shoes scuffing on the damp boardwalk.

The entire walkway was still empty save the mist, the two maids in their light blue long-sleeved dresses with white aprons on the front, and a lump barely visible ahead of them that just barely appeared to be heaving up and down with shallow breathing. Time stood still for a moment.

"Do ya think Angela will be able ta?" the taller maid asked without completing the entire question. They both knew what this was.

The goblin clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "There are two beds open back at the place, but you remember what happened last time," she answered with a lecturing tone. "Everybody hopes for a reward from the police for ratting on us; you never know how loyal these tramps will be."

The troll's bright red braids fell across her back as she shook her head with sympathy. "We can' just leave her here, Trixie. There ain't even any other homeless people around ta help her out."

The goblin rubbed her forehead with her palm, eyes closed in thought. "I know Sonja, I know. Just..." She sighed before continuing. "Alright. I can get her feet but you need to carry most of the weight."

The two maids knelt down by the vagrant in rags, turning the body over as they checked for any injuries, items or identification. Trixie cradled the seemingly lifeless head in her hand, brushing the greasy, matted hair away.

"She's been using," the shorter maid stated clinically as she pulled back the vagrant's coat sleeve and checked the crook of the long, mauve-colored arm. "She's breathing, but she might not make it much longer. This would be a real fixer-upper even if she can live through detox."

"We all got things in our pasts," Sonja answered in her heavily accented, not entirely fluent Common.

As the two maids lifted up the living pile of rags, its head rolled to the side. Two sad, faded silver eyes that had once burned with a bright glow opened halfway, trying to spy the guardian angels now carrying their new pet project home.

* * *

Raindrops slid down the window of the mansion's kitchen, the green grass in the garden outside slowly being flooded by the coming storm. The light brown picket fence had darkened due to the dampness and the trees swayed in the wind. The sound was beautiful; if there was any source of solace in this wretched city, it was the tropical climate. It reminded her of the way her mother had always described Feralas.

A tall night elf sat on a wooden chair in the blue-and-white tiled kitchen, her legs crossed and one hand resting on the other as she watched the rain outside. Her light blue dress and shoes matched the white apron she wore on the front, save the few soap and ketchup stains. A strand of her light indigo hair that was gradually losing its color hung from behind her ear, the streaks of grey a new addition and a reminder that time was ticking. The loss of immortality had rendered her people vulnerable to the vices of the brave new world, and the warning manifested itself differently in different individuals. Though her face was unblemished and without wrinkles, her greying hair let her know every morning that most of her lifespan was already behind her.

She was statuesque as she sat, like an unmoving thinker pondering the meaning of the universe. If only her thoughts were that deep. The handle for her mop bucket had been slightly damaged by one of the customer's children, and she had noticed that some of her liquid soaps had gone missing from her backpack. Everything was bunched up next to her feet on the floor as she waited to just get out of there and return to the apartment she shared with the others. There was talk of the hurricane passing directly over Booty Bay that night, and even many of the bars and import-export businesses - the mainstays of the local economy - were closing early and boarding up their windows and doors.

An overdressed human female entered the cavernous, well-equipped kitchen with her high heels clacking on the tile floor. The style of shoe was something relatively new, even for the Eastern Kingdoms. It was extremely unappealing to the giant elf, but then again she would never be able to afford anything like that anyway.

The human pushed away her expensive looking mageweave shawl as she fiddled through her purse, the rings on her fingers clacking together as she searched. The squeals and oinks of several bratty children could be heard in the next room. The night elf slouched to almost her full height as she balanced her mop against the chair and approached her employer that day.

"Alright, here you go," the human said as she hand out a gold half-coin as though it were the greatest gift. Her eyes were trained on something else in her purse, not even looking up at the person she was talking to. "We need one of you back on Tuesday, understand?"

The elf with the mauve colored skin looked down at the measley half coin in her palm. "Um, miss...I, well, my associate wasn't paid for last week. She said that you had agreed to pay whoever came this time. So, that, well, would make it one whole gold - ah!"

::_SMACK::_

The slap on her cheek came fast though not particularly hard, and even at full power it was unlikely the human could have caused damage considering she was about half the elf's size. The damage to what little remained of the once mighty warrior's pride, however, was immense.

"Tell your operation to send someone with more manners next week, hmm?" the human cooed as she finally made eye contact. There was not a hint of hesitation or any fear of retribution in her eyes.

Without another word, the night elf quickly gathered her things and made her way out the door of the mansion, failing to even marvel at the marble columns supporting the awning of the massive veranda outside. Hurrying down to the front gate as the wind whipped leaves and scraps of newspaper her way, she didn't even look back as she made her way out onto the street of Booty Bay's upper class district.

"Cunt," she muttered in Darnassian as she slowed down her pace. She wondered how long it would take the arrogant employer to realize that the love letters from the gardener had 'accidentally' been placed in her husband's office desk.

The road down to the Northside - one of three slums in Booty Bay - was hilly and uneven, but at least it was paved. The skies overhead were completely covered with dark grey clouds and the wall of turbulence out over the ocean was something she had learned was a 'hurricane' - some sort of tropical pressure-based phenomenon that battered the west coast of Stranglethorn Vale a few times every summer. The gates to the homes of the wealthy and middle class traders were shut and locked, as were the doors of the shops once she had reached the main urban area.

These nearly-hour long walks back from the upper-class district were rarely happy ones, though strangely the coming storm somehow lifted her spirits a bit. It had been more than six months since Trixie and Sonja had found her in that isolated ramp on the boardwalk and dragged her back to their cramped studio apartment.

Angela, the surrogate mother for the rest of the group, was skeptical at first. People hooked on the kind of junk found on the east side often had difficulties readjusting to a normal, sober life. One of the many vices brought by this term the goblin trade princes had coined known as 'industrialization' - a rapid spread of their steam and arcane powered technology that brought advances in alchemy, herbalism and blacksmithing but also pollution, crowding into cities, destruction of the environment that the Kaldorei held so dear and the creation of substances mortal bodies were not meant to consume.

As the lone night elf maid reached the beginning of the main urban area, she walked the empty cobblestone streets with her hands demurely folded in front of her as she carried her mop bucket and stared at the ground. This part of the city was relatively clean, and only a few pieces of rotten food and old fliers littered in the gutters. Each side of the street was bordered by all sorts of wood-plank built establishments, most of them lacking any uniqueness or character. She passed a furnisher that specialized in those new fangled mattresses with iron springs in them, once again triggering memories of her first two months with Angela and the others.

"Six months..."

She had awoken in an empty concrete room in the studio apartment strapped down to one of those mattresses, her cracked lips crying out for water. Despite the pain in every inch of her skin, she was almost totally coherent that time, and merely lied down and grimaced as the caregivers identifying themselves as Angela and Trixie informed her of the screaming fits she had woken up with during the previous three days. She had even tried to bite Freeda, the second goblin in the house, while being force fed the day before. She was weak, tired, and unable to run any farther. In fact, she believed now that it was only her extremely dire circumstance, her total inability to fight back that allowed her to accept their help so easily.

A large number of different women filtered in and out of Angela's apartment weekly, Trixie and Sonja being the only real long-term residents. All of them were picked up off the street and given a place to stay and share in the cleaning contracts as long as they shared their earnings, helped maintain the uniforms and stayed clean. The dark side of the equation was that Angela was in debt to a local mafia group operating without permission of the trade princes. As long as they paid a flat monthly fee, they were allowed to pay off their accounts through 'normal jobs' such as cleaning and childcare rather than being sent to service one of the syndicate's seedy, unlicensed bars or even worse.

The rules of Angela's apartment were simple. No drugs, not even a drop of alcohol, no gambling, and the ultimate, unbreakable, non-negotiable rule of no men at the apartment, ever. It was hard. It was brutal. It made her want to pull her hair out at times.

But it saved her life.

Holding on to the fake ID card she had obtained, she braced herself against another gust of wind - women of most other races would have certainly been knocked back. Her backpack swayed a bit but the clip-on, leather holder for her laminated ID card was as valuable as gold to her now.

Any of the ladies working in the upper class district needed ID in case they were stopped, and those who lost their identification papers - or who simply came from cultures where the concept was unknown, such as night elves and tauren - had to turn to the various organizations operating without permission from the trade princes. Many residents preferred to go that route anyway, as the fake ID card printed by the syndicates allowed one to become an entirely new person. The name choices were often random for complicated legal reasons, but one could - with time - get used to living a fake life.

As she entered the main street of the Northside, she listened to the loud gusts of the storm, swearing she could almost hear the rumble of a deep, soothing voice in the wind that reminded her of a time when she had been able to rely on the help of a kind stranger. Angela and her adoptive sisters were truly kind, but there was still the lingering worry in the elf's brain that, eventually, they would all go there separate ways and there would be noone there to hold her hand anymore. She had been cut off from everything, even her name, and was undeniably on a new path with a new life.

Saying goodbye to Isurith Swiftfoot had been almost as difficult as getting clean. The face on the ID was hers - taken with that photography thing the goblins and gnomes were so fond of - but the name wasn't even elven. The new name felt like being born with some sort of defect she could never get rid of, something she just had to begrudgingly live with for whatever short amount of time she had in her life.

"Time..." she chuckled at herself lightly, still able to find humor in her new situation as she turned onto a side street lined by the back ends of shops closed up on the other sides.

She was twelve-thousand, one-hundred and twenty-four years old. Sometimes she had to write down the number to even imagine it herself - 12,124. She had lived through so much, yet had been so naive about the world outside of the night elves' ancestral homeland. It was only now that she had begun to realize how much time was lost in the memories of her people. She could remember her childhood and the time before immortality like it was yesterday; the single time she passed by Queen Azshara in the palace eleven-thousand years ago felt like yesterday. She could still recall what the once glamorous queen of the highborne looked like back then...yet she could not remember her own mother who had spent the Long Vigil with her.

It was strange, and not any of the scholars of the world, Kaldorei or outlander (there she was again, referring to anyone not a night elf as foreign despite having a mixed-race neice) had been able to explain it philosophically. During the millenia of the Long Vigil, their lives had been so monotonous. Night elf women had named every dirt path, every cypress knee sprouting from the ground, every large boulder jutting up from the soil, every tree large and small, every branch in the forest with unique, individual names. They had words for each piece of communicative information in the songs of birds, for the different styles of walking observed in fawns, words for shades of colors and different geometric shapes the other races couldn't quite describe. It was detailed, it was deep, it was...boring.

That was what she remembered most about the Long Vigil now; the boredom. The stifling monotony of patrolling the same woods, sharpening the same arrowheads and glaives, eating the same meals, having the same conversations for thousands and thousands of years in a row. Eventually their brains shut down, and the oldest generation of night elves like herself - she was only a thousand and seven hundred years younger than Tyrande Whisperwind - lost their individuality, their sense of personhood. They had all seen every sight, heard every sound, smelled every odor, and shared every experience. The sense of uniqueness separating their own egos and consciousnesses from those of their sister elves were broken down, and their personalities all became nearly homogenous. They were as feral as the nightsabres they rode, in tune with nature but without the level of sentient thought one would expect from such ancient, 'wise' beings.

She stopped walking for a moment once she was in front of the three storey apartment block, constructed of the same wood plank material as everything else in Booty Bay. At least the road was paved, the neighborhood being a mass of crowded lower-class housing packed into narrow streets on the ledge overlooking the cove. The wind had already started howling and the lightning bolts flashing across the sky were an impressive sight to behold.

As she asended the staircase to their studio apartment, she soaked up the sort of epiphany few night elves ever experienced, usually after some sort of traumatic or otherwise unfortunate circumstance in their life after the loss of immortality.

For all her years - her twelve-thousand years of mostly hazy, lost memories - she was now emotionally a youngling, only having woken up to all the strong feelings and urges other races felt after the end of her people's isolation. She should have been too wise to fall for the false promises of the swindlers, death merchants and drug peddlers of a pirate cove, and yet here she was, having bottomed out like some twenty-something from the village after her first year at academy in Stormwind. What was left of her life now was only salvaged due to her letting go of her typical night elf arrogance and pride and seeing it for the foolishness and naivete it truly was.

The moment she entered the overly long apartment with the cement floor and unpainted walls, Trixie was already there, seated on the cushy red chair opposite the door.

"Cici!" she beamed as the night elf walked in completely ignoring her.

The downcast veteran of a major war to defend the planet of Azeroth from the Burning Legion moved into the alcove used as a kitchen without noticing that she was being addressed, the situational awareness which had once been so important on the battlefield throughout the millennia having been eroded away by mere months of her recent lascivious lifestyle. She stored her cleaning gear, flipped the half gold coin onto the counter and closed her eyes.

"Hrrnh..."

Bracing herself against the countertop, she bent over forward as she stretched her back. She had once judo tossed a tauren chieftan across a trench at Warsong Gulch, yet now her back was hurting her from half a day of scrubbing toilets and mopping floors. It seemed that at least the inconvenient memories had stayed fresh in her mind.

"Hey Cici," the goblin repeated, twisting around on the chair to shout at the weary night elf in the kitchen.

The maid formerly known as Isurith turned to look at Trixie, then down at the ID carrier clipped to her dress. Cecilia Hearthglen. It sounded like a human name. Couldn't the mafia underling in charge of printing these things have flipped just a little further in his musty filing cabinet to find something more apt?

"I handled the dishes for you tonight when I heard you had to handle the Helme household," the pajama-clad goblin chirped as she stood up on the chair. "You're welcome!"

"Thanks," Isuri...Cecilia breathed out, trying to force herself to sound happy. It would still take more time to get used to that name. "I just need to hit the sack for a bit."

The single draenei female who had moved in with them last week popped up from the ratty couch the group of outcasts had salvaged from a dumpster, surprising Cecilia with her presence. The torn, dark brown couch was also across from the door and on the opposite side as Trixie's chair, and should also have been easy to notice. Despite being three times as tall, the draenei was wearing a pair of pajamas matching those of the goblin across from her. She had given her name about three times until now, and it had been forgotten three times.

"What, you don't want to make a hurricane party with us?" The draenei's tone was playful, and despite Cecilia's mood and envy for the draenei's glowing eyes, she did cheer up a bit.

"Just let me rest for a few and think about it," the dull-eyed elf said as she made her way to the broom closet she shared with Freeda.

Angela was seated in the middle of the living room-slash-kitchen, smiling and humming to herself as she worked on stitching up a torn maid's uniform at a small table with her back to the door. The middle aged human's rosy cheeks matched her house blouse and the hair that was tied back in a bun. Cecilia was quite silly for thinking she could sneak away unnoticed.

"She hit you again, didn't she?" Angela asked knowingly without looking up from her handiwork.

Exhaling deeply through her mouth, the tall, greying night elf placed one hand on a ceiling rafter and leaned against it, closing her eyes. The apartment was spacious in terms of square feet, but the low ceiling made it difficult for Cecilia, Sonja and the draenei to move around.

"Only once this time. And she'll get hers once her husband gets back to his office," she mumbled into her hand.

"I'm not one to judge," the short human answered as she continued smiling and working. "Just make sure the contract isn't canceled."

Giving her much, much younger surrogate mother an affirmative nod, the elf now known as Cecilia retired to her room to change into normal clothes and take a nap before considering the little hurricane party. She wouldn't start her twelve-hour shift until midday tomorrow and staying up through the storm did sound inviting.

* * *

Sleeping had proven too difficult. The screaming of the gradually increasing storm winds outside melded with the expected screaming of her former victims the moment her head hit the pillow, and Cecilia's mere five-to-ten minutes of sleep ended up leaving her eyes feeling salty and her mind even groggier. Wearing her shoes inside to protect her feet from the cold cement floor, she went back to the kitchen to see if there were any cashews left. Small snacks made up most of the women's diets due to their tight budget, though even those tended to disappear fast.

Angela was still at work and had likely been chatting with Trixie loudly across the room again, though it would have been difficult to tell given the volume of the hurricane outside. Before the disoriented night elf could even open the cabinets, the draenei was already trying to reach out again. "Did you change your mind about our super storm party?" she asked tartishly.

Before Cecilia could even answer, there was a bang at the door loud enough to be heard over the storm along with the shuffling of several pairs of feet. The draenei shot a look to the back of Angela's head.

"Is it Grue?" she asked with her arms thrown over the back of the couch, the fear already apparent in her voice.

"I hear you talking in there," shouted a male goblin from the other side of the door. "Open this damn door now or I'll break it down."

Cecilia moved behind the cupboards they had installed near the door to Sonja and Trixie's bedroom, hiding her head and shoulders behind it. The sight of the mafioso who held sway over Angela and the others due to various favors enraged her enough to bring the old ferocity back out, and reacting in anger to an organized crime syndicate when all the bruisers were absent due to the storm would be a horrendous idea.

Even back behind the cupboard, she could hear the door opening and several pairs of feet shuffling inside as Trixie was pushed out of the way. Curiosity got the better of her, and the already fuming elf peeked out from behind the side of the cupboard.

Grue was there with his ridiculous looking black leather jacket now soaked by the rain. There were four of his boys behind him: an orc, two humans and - she gasped - a _male night elf_! And...his amber eyes weren't even dim, signaling that he was there by choice rather than having been drugged.

What...! Rage filled every inch of Ceclia's being and she already wanted to grab him by the throat and rip his larynx out with her claw-like nails. His entire face was clean shaven - a habit of foreigners and Demon Hunters which she found to be ridiculous and very unattractive - and his navy blue hair was cut very short, perhaps only a quarter of an inch long. His entire appearance was a mockery of their people and it didn't match his long, lavender ears. How could any proud Kaldorei man - a _druid_ no less! - have allowed himself to end up involved with a loan shark like Grue! Her fists were clenched so hard behind the cupboard that she almost pierced the skin of her own palms with her claws.

In her anger, Cecilia had temporarily tuned out the conversation that had already started between Grue, Trixie and an unresponsive Angela and missed much of what was said. Feeling lightheaded as she suddenly remembered to breathe, she began to listen to the voices from her hiding place again with little to no context of what the lowlife was demanding this time. She didn't know if it was one, two, five minutes, maybe more she had missed from the discussion, but she could surmise that it was about money.

"I gave you a week, you were late," Grue ranted at the back of the human's head. "I gave you two weeks, you were late. I gave you a month, you were late and came up short. I told you the last two times that the boss wouldn't accept any more excuses, yet here we are a third time."

Angela continued her stitching, her smile not fading from her face as she refused to respond.

"Mister Grue," Trixie reasoned with more than a hint of fear in her voice, "our relationship with your employer has been one of respect and understan-"

"Understand this, sweet cheeks! If we hadn't given Angela here the money to bail you out the first time, the city guards would've dumped you back on that same street corner after your indictment reminding people why your name is derived from the word 'tricks'!"

An audible gasp could be heard from the pajama-clad goblin as Cecilia ground her teeth together and forced her fingers to uncurl. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six...

"So don't you go telling me about understanding!"

Angela's stitching slowed down a bit, her smile still there but now looking slightly forced.

"You really fucked up this time, Angie," Grue continued. "I try to be reasonable, try to be understanding, but that's a two-way road! Did you ever stop to consider how your actions affect others?"

The pajama-clad draenei couldn't contain her indignance any longer.

"Of course she considers that! Look at all of this," she said as she made a sweeping motion to the other women and the whole apartment. "We were lost, and now we're found! Don't you have any sisters? Don't you know how hard it is in this city for..." Her voice trailed off when she noticed that Earl Goldthwaite, the greasier human male with a bad combover wearing a tough, brown leather vest, had started staring at her lips as she talked.

Angela had stopped stitching entirely, her look completely crestfallen.

"That one has quite a mouth on her," Grue joked to his boys behind him. "And about that, Angie. The boss thinks that you can worry about the seven different debts you owe us until next month." He turned sideways to where he could see both Angela and the cringing draenei curled up on the couch.

"One of the guys over at Diablo's on the east side spied your hooved friend here," he said as he pointed rudely. "We think we can square everything this month by shifting some labor. We need to pull her out of cleaning and have her over there."

The hooved female lay paralyzed on the couch in a state of utter terror, but Trixie was already standing and trying to move around the four thugs at the doorway. "Grue, come on, let's try to be serious here!"

He cut her off with a raised finger and a death stare that would have stopped a mountain giant. "Don't you EVER doubt my seriousness again. Respond."

The whole room was silent until Trixie swallwed and nodded nervously. A measure of self-control beyond what a normal mortal being could have possessed prevented Cecilia from stepping out from behind the cupboard and launching herself at the group of five. She might not kill them but she could scar them for life before dying, she thought in spite of all logic and reason urging her to ignore the slurs and threats.

She leaned just a bit further out from behind the cupboard suspended from the ceiling, trying to see how the standoff would end. Nobody was saying anything.

Slowly, Angela rose to meet Cecilia's eyes. She held her crushed expression for a moment before hardening and mouthing the word 'run.'

In one fluid movement, the ageing human with a dark past spun around and stabbed clean through Grue's pointy, probiscis-like nose with a seam ripper.

"Yeeeaarrgh! Get her off me! Get her off me!"

Trixie grabbed on to the night elf male's leg and bit his thigh as he tried to shake her off, the other three ignoring the draenei escaping the apartment as they tried to restrain Angela, who was fighting as furiously as a sabre defending her young.

Cecilia burst into Sonja's bedroom, opening the drawer of her dresser and tossing out all the two-toed socks. Underneath, she found an iron candlestick holder that weighed at least ten pounds and pulled it out. She hadn't even turned around before she felt a large, three fingered hand on her wrist and the second three fingered hand over her mouth. Freeda's clawed hands locked the bedroom door behind them as Cecilia struggled with the internal battle between valor and self-preservation.

"Tha window!" Sonja hissed through her teeth as they heard a dinner plate smash against someone's skull in the next room. "Now!"

Sonja and Freeda tried to drag the heated, cursing night elf over to the window, having trouble with her out-of-practice yet still powerful 300 pounds of fury.

"They'll kill her!" Cecilia mumbled through Sonja's hand as Freeda opened the bedroom window. "They'll kill her!"

"Angela would tell you herself that there's nothing you can do to stop that," Freeda said in a normal speaking voice now. "Go. Run. She told us to run. I know her better than you; she's ready."

Though not quite as strong as the former warrior, Sonja was able to wrap her hands around Cecilia's waist and lift her off the ground. Despite the elf's sputtering and flailing, Freeda was able to grab her by the feet and throw her legs over the windowsill at the same time that the second of the human males cried out a death groan in the main room. Angela had never mentioned what exactly she had been involved in before Booty Bay, but it's obvious that it involved the same kind of violence that Grue had seemed prepared for with his four armed guards.

At some point during the squabble, Cecilia had dropped the candlestick holder and found herself seated on the windowsill. She had stopped resisting once she saw the pouring rain and violently swinging coconut trees outside, the completely black sky allowing her to see better than inside. A few years ago, her warrior's rage would have prevented her from finally consenting, but her broken spirit at least had a bit more common sense.

The small goblin's words had forced her to face the inevitable: there was nothing she could choose other than to run, to die or something worse. Grue had seen how the glow had been drained from Cecilia's eyes, and for sure he knew that she was a former addict; like all elves, her body was not designed to handle narcotics and only a small amount would be needed to force her into drug slavery in some cesspool like Diablo's. No, logic dictated; there was nothing she could have done. And no matter how guilty Ceclilia felt, she knew Angela had wanted her to run toward the possibility of a normal life.

"You girls got to jump," Freeda shouted as she pushed the dresser in front of the bedroom door. "Now!"

The jungle troll practically shoved the night elf out the window. Despite her skills having rusted after two years of disuse, despite the slippery wetness of the cobblestone below, despite her post-sobriety shakes, Cecilia somehow managed to pull into a crouching position and land on her feet and one hand, the other arm raised up behind her for balance. She was barely able to turn back in time to help a now tumbling Sonja.

"Aye!" the troll shouted as she hit the ground on one foot and stumbled against the side of the building. Cecilia rushed to check Sonja's ankles, determining that it must have been her heel.

Throwing one of the Darkspear's arm over her shoulder, she turned and expected to see Freeda now leaping down into their arms. She was instead met with the sillhouette of a goblin woman falling as an orc struck her with a candlestick holder in the apartment above.

"No!" Cecilia screamed into the howling wind, barely audible even to her companion. "You murderers! You fucking cowards!"

"We gotta go," Sonja whimpered as she limped and tried to spur Cecilia on.

The two turned left on the next street, their uniforms soaked as they looked to see if there were any bruisers or even bystanders nearby to seek refuge with. The worst of the storm seemed to be directly above the city, and the wind was screaming into their ears. They had given up fight for flight, the two of them hobbling down alleyways and streets across Northside in the most awkward path they could imagine, trying to put as much distance as they could between themselves and the last known location. A completely uprooted tree was dragged across the empty street in front of them by the force of the wind and they could spy debris swirling up toward the eye of the storm.

"They can't touch us when the bruisers are around," Cecilia shouted into Sonja's ear, still not entirely sure if she could even be heard. "The trade princes would kill them, we just need to wait out the storm so the streets are busy again."

The elf and the troll went on this way, hobbling down unlit side streets for the next quarter of an hour, neither of them having realized before how expansive Booty Bay truly was after the past few years of massive urban sprawl. Sonja was completely reliant on Cecilia now, the night elf's eyes able to see in the pitch black road lined by old, creaking houses, scattered crafts workshops and closed restaurants. There was not another soul to be seen and most of the city's denizens had boarded up their windows in anticipation of the storm season. Banging on random doors likely wouldn't be heard over the screeching winds, and even if they were heard they were more likely to be met with hostility than hospitality.

Down an alleyway off the small street, they turned right and found a second alley in between the buildings of a single block. There were no signs of habitation, not even any piles of rags to signal that even vagrants would call this place home. None of the sixteen buildings on either side even had back doors, yet the ends of the block leading out to the roads were blocked with wooden fences. It was the most forgotten place one could imagine.

Spying an old iron crate once used for clothing donations, the two had the same idea at the same time. They slowly approached, Sonja's heel functioning a bit better after walking it off. Cecilia peered inside and saw that there were no animals or debris; only some dirty blankets and a padding of useless clothes on the bottom.

"In here," she beckoned, a sense of comfort washing over them both as the fixated on the dirty old used linens. The crate was thin but taller than both of them, with a wide opening at the top that could fit either one of them but wasn't low enough for either to be seen while sitting down inside.

The weary elf kneeled down to help her troll companion inside, then climbed in herself. They could still hear the storm outside, but the rain fell in at an angle that kept both of them dry. They both sat down with their backs to either end of the crate, finally able to rest, catch their breath and collect their thoughts.

"We could have fought them," Cecilia groaned in disappointment after catching her breath. "You used to be a rogue. I was a warrior. I literally have thousands of years of experience. Even after getting cleaned up and sober, I can still fight."

She was more angry at herself than anyone else. To have witnessed so much history, to have fought so many battles, to have trained with so many masters, to have seen the world ripped apart into several continents at the Sundering...it was humiliating to be reduced to this. To running off in the night, backing down from a couple of thugs weilding blackjacks, and hiding in an alleyway that wasn't even good enough for stray dogs. She was better than this. She was stronger than this. She was wiser than this.

And yet...

...there was still that part, deep down inside, that felt like she deserved this. She killed fifty-seven civilians around Warsong Gulch and remembered every one of them. As much as she tried to tell herself that her previous millennia of heroism outweighed that, the murders which she herself had committed were fresher in her memory. And to top it all off, once she had arrived in this city she had allowed herself to be tricked. She could just as easily been that night elf thug working for Grue. She was no better.

The different conflicting emotions swelling up inside her, it was only Sonja that prevented her from bursting.

"Angela wanted it this way," the Darkspear female said, her voice pained but very self-assured. "She used ta talk about this bein' a possibility. She always knew."

Their shelter now providing some temporary dryness, Sonja wiped the tears away before continuing. "She lived a hard life and did a lotta really rotten things, just like you an' me. None of us in that apartment was innocent. But she saw hope in us, that we could be better, could redeem ourselves. Her own redemption was givin' her all for other women in situations like her."

The troll sniffled and shook her head. "If it had ta go down like this, she knew she wanted us ta escape. I know it's hard, but...this is the only thing we coulda done."

It was a hard pill to swallow. It shouldn't be hard. Cecilia had lost comrades before; quite a few. She lost her mother in the War of the Shifting Sands. But that, like so many of her memories from the Long Vigil, were now images in her head, as though she merely read her own life in a history book written by someone else. This, however, was completely real, just like everything else since the destruction of the World Tree at Hyjal.

The two sat silently for another long while before stirring. The night was still young, and the storm was far from over.

"It's so hard, Sonja," Cecilia finally lamented in her moment of weakness. "I never thought the world outside of Ashenvale would be so hard. I could have dealt with war, but not with all this corruption. This world is a cold, uncaring place." She was crushed by the realization that despite all her pain from her actions at Warsong, her present situation felt just as bad. "It's not fair."

She was preaching to the choir. Despite the age disparity - Cecilia was twelve millennia old and Sonja was only in her mid thirties - the elf had essentially been in a trance for all those millennia, a sort of waking dream with no fear, hate or complications, and had known the real world for less than a decade. The troll who was only a fraction of her age had been born in it.

"Sonja," the night elf called out with a fragility she hated to hear from herself.

"Hmm?" the jungle troll answered without opening her eyes.

"I'm sorry," Cecilia said with her defeated voice. "I'm sorry for treating you so badly that first month when I was detoxing. It was wrong. I just...was so confused. I'm sorry. You tried so hard to be so kind-"

"Don' you ever apologize, Cici," Sonja said as she cut the melancholy elf off. "Ya people was isolated for a long time and ya didn' have no experience with tha outside world. That world was still new ta ya and ya previous experience here wasn't any good. I knew ya was sincere and that ya would come 'round eventually."

She opened her eyes finally. "We sisters, now. And we don' got nothin' else if we don' help each other out. That's all that matters."

Though no rain could filter in, they could now hear it trickling along the alleyway, the water level having risen. The lower levels of the cove below might actually be flooded at this point. Sleep would be difficult that night despite having found a safe place to say.

"Sonja?" Cecilia called out again. Any embarrassment she may have felt over seeking advice from someone whose entire lifespan was like a day in her own had disappeared.

"Yeah?"

"Do you think the world will ever have a place for us?"

There was a long pause as the Darkspear considered her response and the Kaldorei waited for it.

"Tha world don' want people like us," Sonja finally said. Her voice was steady and clear and while her expression wasn't pained anymore, it was so _tired_. The face of someone who was just sick and tired, and worst of all knew that she had to continue marching on.

"It don' want us, and it don' need us. People like us ain't never gonna have a place of our own unless we make it for ourselves."

The hurricane grew louder as it swept over the city. Any other sounds, even their conversation, were drowned out. The two women sat together underneath the dirty blankets, their backs up against the wall as they waited out the storm.


	18. A Beautiful Friendship

**A/N: Regarding the trilingual conversation: it's entirely possible. As someone who speaks five languages, I can attest that shifting in and out of multiple languages isn't that tough when you're used to it. As for Darnassian, Thalassian and Nazja being so close but elves and naga not admitting that, then it's mentioned in some official Blizzard sources and I equate it to Hindi and Urdu: both languages are mutually intelligible, but for political reasons, some people from India and Pakistan will claim they can't understand each other when they actually can just fine. So in the conversation of Ghorlash speaking one language and the high elf speaking another, keep in mind it's like a conversation IRL between people from India and Pakistan, Serbia and Bosnia or educated speakers of formal Spanish and Portuguese; some words aren't familiar but the general context of the sentence makes sense.**

* * *

_Two and a half years ago._

Cecilia watched as Sonja finished packing her bags slowly, all three occupants of the cabin still tired after having stayed up for the troll's going away dinner the night before. A second night elf, obviously much younger than Cecilia, chatted excitedly while seated on the bed reminding the former sentinel of the way humans behaved. It was both endearing and trying at the same time, to the point where even Sonja would sometimes just shut down and resign herself to merely listening without speaking.

The ship creaked back and forth slightly as the sensation of the forward push continued. It was almost relaxing in a way once one could get used to it; though Cecilia couldn't exactly say she enjoyed traversing the open ocean, it was as tolerable as riding a zeppelin or taking a long trip on the back of a nightsabre without rest.

It had been over twelve hours since they had left the port at Theramore. Their more energetic companion hadn't quite understood why Cecilia refused to leave the passenger ship for the whole five hours it would remain docked, though Sonja had flashed Cecilia an understanding nod over her shoulder as she led the younger, shorter night elf out of their room in the lower decks, accepting the responsibility of explaining some uncomfortable stories.

All three of them were back in the sleeping quarters of the female crew members, preparing to start up work that late morning as the new Theramore-Ratchet route carried a rather motley group of passengers and crew members. The quarters were cramped, just barely wide enough to accomodate the two queen-sized mattresses mashed together against the far wall and just long enough for the clothing cabinets lining the rest of the wall at the foot of the mattresses, with a short table bearing rations and drinking water on one side and a single chair occupying the space on the other side.

Cecilia tried to relax herself with the rhythm of the boat's rocking as she waited patiently for the hair dye to do its job. The hair net was a bit itchy and given what little time she had left in this world, she _detested_ just sitting around waiting for anything. Sonja had told her half an hour, though, and so wait she did. The creepy Forsaken cook they shared the room with was in the canteen likely brewing up another one of her stews that was surprisingly tasty despite her horrifying countenance, and the three friends could speak freely.

"They were just too controlling," Cecilia's new friend and Sonja's old friend - Irien Rainsong, her name was - ranted about the Ranger Academy in Darkshore. "There was a ton of jealousy and backstabbing too, so I was like, you know what? You know what? I handle a rifle way better than any of you handle a bow here, I don't need to be held back any longer."

She spoke with such a brash confidence that her age was quite apparent; night elves weren't normally so forward when expressing themselves, and she couldn't be more than a thousand years old. It was almost like listening to a very tall human talking, yet Irien wasn't a human; she was perhaps one of only a handful of other Kaldorei who Cecilia could still tolerate being around (and who would tolerate being around her).

"Whatever," Irien said with a psshh and a quick blow of air to a stray lock of indigo hair hanging in front of her face. "Forget Auberdine, I hope it gets destroyed by a natural disaster one day."

Cecilia spoke up without even realizing she was doing so, finding it easy to open up in front of this one. "Sounds like how I feel about Theramore. I hope it gets blown up or something."

The three shared a laugh as Sonja moved around to help Cecilia out of the chair. "Come on now," she started with her still accented yet steadily improving Common. "Let's rinse that out an' see how ya look."

The door to the women's latrine was directly in front of the door to their sleeping quarters, and since they both swung out in opposite directions Sonja was able to create a small concealed corrider in the middle of the narrow hall of the lower decks. Like their towns, goblin ships actually had pressurized running water, one more reason why none of the three women quite regretted their choice of employer, even if they all had many other life choices that haunted them.

"Keep ya eyes closed, sugar," Sonja instructed as she opened the tap and helped Cecilia remove the hair net while bending down to the wash basin.

Excess hair dye ran down the drain in a swirling motion, mixing with the water as Cecilia's heart thumped with anticipation. She'd like to believe that the opinions of others didn't matter to her, but if this didn't work out and she ended up actually _missing_ her greying hair, she had half a mind to just cut it super short and wear a full-helmet like the wardens rather than the old school huntress-style half-helmet their employer had provided.

Cecilia braced herself on the sides of the sink as she held her head under the flowing water, knowing that it was better to just allow Sonja to work her magic; her own fingers would only get in the way. They were both silent aside from Sonja's heavy trollish breathing as the warm flow ran soothingly through Cecilia's hair and across her scalp. Combined with the incidental massage Sonja delivered while working out the excess dye, it was a struggle not to fall asleep standing.

She half regretted having donned her new armor already, as she would hate to get dye on it. Cecilia was normally a paramount for organization and time management, but this was the first time she had dyed her hair and the prospects of some of the coloring possibly splashing elsewhere hadn't crossed her mind. Her armor was goblin made, but such an accurate impersonation of the elven style that only those with battle experience in northern Kalimdor would have noticed the difference. The bright silver and black thorium was as heavy as any she had worn during the Third War, custom fitted to her excessive height such that even many night elf _men_ wouldn't have been able to move around in it comfortably, much less fight in it. For Cecilia, it was just right; the fact that it had been given to her by foreigners actually made her feel more, not less, comfortable with it.

It was hard to imagine that she and Sonja had been working on the passenger ships for almost three years. It felt like just yesterday that Cecilia was recovering from her withdrawl symptoms at the apartment of Angela - Goddess rest her soul - and was arrogantly refusing to respond to the Darkspear troll's attempts to chat jovially in Common.

Sonja was so strong, Cecilia thought. Just like Cecilia, Sonja had a noticeable accent when speaking Common, and just like Cecilia, Sonja was also self-conscious about it. But there was no reason for people to doubt the intelligence of either of them - nor their command of the language - due to a different way of pronouncing things. Sonja still occasionally fell into speaking the 'th' sound as a 'd' just as Cecilia almost always had difficulty with the letter 'v' in Common and ended up saying it as an 'f'.

It felt like just yesterday night that the two of them were in that iron crate after having witnessed two of their friends and saviors being murdered by a group of cowardly opportunists who tried to abduct them during a tropical storm, knowing that the authourities wouldn't be patrolling the streets. They had zig-zagged through the streets to lose their pursuers, knowing only that the nameless, uncharacteristically private draenei woman - their sister, just like the others - had at least managed to escape into the night as well.

"Almost done," Sonja crooned, sounding just as excited as the one getting her hair dyed.

Cecilia zoomed in on the excess hair dye as it continued to swirl down the sink, pushing her into flashbacks of the hurricane that fateful night. The born-again warrior grunted as the dark blue color gradually disappeared from the clear water and the smell of the hair dye dissipated.

They had come so far, Cecilia thought to herself. Isurith Swiftfoot deserved to die at Warsong Gulch, but she didn't. Isurith didn't deserve that one incredible act of kindness from the now supposedly executed jailer she would never forget, but he granted it. Isurith didn't deserve the endless lengths her family had gone to in order to make her feel comfortable in Astranaar, but they went. Isurith didn't deserve the opportunity for a new identity and clean, straight edge lifestyle when Angela had arranged both of those things, but they had been arranged.

But did Cecilia Hearthglen deserve this?

Irien had been just another undeserved guardian angel. The elf now known as Cecilia had woken after the hurricane, casting her pride aside and taking her new cleaning skills to scrub toilets and disgusting kitchen floors in restaurants during the post-storm cleanup in Booty Bay's lower cove. It was low-paying, backbreaking and degrading work but it afforded them both food, shelter and a place to hide from Grue in the weeks following the flood caused by the hurricane and the trauma of having lost their surrogate mother. Having to cast a heavy burden of her own embarrassment and shame over requesting help aside, Sonja hesitated in great distress before finally writing letters to an Alliance guild she had some sort of connection to - her explanations of her relationship with this human male named 'Erikur' were never the same twice - and a powerful adviser happened to be the uncle of the rebellious Irien Rainsong. With one more undeserved act of mercy, a goblin-run passenger ship famous for providing safety and hearty meals to any travelers willing to surrender their weapons while aboard docked, and the boisterous night elf riflewoman was waiting for them with work contracts.

And just like that, in one afternoon, the Kaldorei and the Darkspear had gone from being vagrants forgotten by the Alliance and the Horde to colorfully dressed, well-fed and taken care of enforcers on a goblin cartel ship operating with identification papers not beholden to any faction. That Cecilia's nightmares had gradually occurred less and less often almost made her feel even more guilty for having been treated so well.

"Alright, that's tha last of it," Sonja said as she shut the tap and wrapped a hand towel around Cecilia's hair. She had been so lost in her thoughts that she hadn't even noticed when the swirl of water flowing down the drain had turned completely clear.

Sonja took a step back as Cecilia rose, allowing the night elf to dry her own hair. She took great care to keep every strand of her long locks concealed as she waited with baited breath.

"I want to see!" Irien bellowed as she bounced over to the doorway.

Her behavior was offputting at times, but she seemed to look up to Cecilia as her elder in a way that was flattering. Plus, she was essentially the reason Cecilia and Sonja had been pulled out of poverty in the first place; it was hard to brush her off during her swings of particularly annoying behavior.

Her hair mostly dried, Cecilia slowly slipped the towel off her head to gasps of admiration from her two best friends. What were once light indigo and grey locks - with the indigo slowly losing a battle for domination of her scalp - had now been replaced with a dark azure color that almost matched the violet-blue crescent moons tattooed on her face. It seemed fitting, to have a new, entirely different shade for her hair to go along with her new name, new identity and new life.

"How do ya like it?" Sonja asked with both awe and concern in her voice, obviously hoping that her friend would feel she had done a good job.

"I absolutely love it!" Cecilia exclaimed, her sincerity apparent in her face. "I love the azure color so much. It's beautiful."

Sonja looked delighted with her hands clasped to her bright red chestpiece that matched her braided hair but was decidedly un-stealthy, considering that she was a rogue. The employers wanted the security enforcers to be dressed almost as though they were playing the part of characters; it was both intimidating to would-be troublemakers and fascinating for the large number of families who engaged in international travel for various reasons, bringing with them various tales and stories.

Irien had clasped her hands to her tacky chestpiece that didn't seem to match any other piece of her armor when a knock came from one side of the two doors that had formed a private corridor.

"Excuse me, ladies," came the voice of a human male that made all three of them roll their eyes. "The other three will clock out soon. The boss will need you to start your patrols in just a few minutes."

Not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a spoken answer, Irien merely answered him with a grunt, bracing her hands against the two doors as she crossed over toward the bunk in the event that he tried to push either door aside. The three returned to their bunk and closed the door behind them, Irien's gaudy green cape twirling through the air as she sat on a mattress and pulled her high-powered hunting rifle along with some sort of a mechanized gnomish cleaning apparatus out from under the bed.

"One more thing," the human - Vicker, was that his name? Vincent? - said with a knock to the door as he cleared his throat.

Cecilia rewrapped her hair in the hand towel, not wanting to hear any of the idiot's comments; Sonja sat down in the chair with her arms folded, likely wondering why the guy would never give up.

Without waiting to be invited, he opened the door and leaned against the frame without actually walking in, smoothing back his coal black hair with a smile which he probably thought was suave plastered on his face.

"There's talk of a dance tonight at the Broken Keel Tavern once we dock at Ratchet," Vanburen said as he attempted to sound nonchalant, looking Sonja over as he made a concerted effort to ignore Irien. A wicked grin spread across the sharpshooter's face as she smelled the fear on him already.

Cecilia noticed the conflict of both contriteness and exhaustion on her Darkspear friend's face, though the jungle troll still spoke. "There's dances at taverns every night, Victor," she sighed, unable to feign politeness.

A barely noticeable glint of ego shone in Valentine's eye as he mistook what was exasperation for something sultry. He stood up straight, the several gallons of cheap cologne he must have dumped on himself that morning wafting into the room as he spoke. "Well, it's funny you should ask, love, because-"

_::BBBBBBZZZZZZZZZZZ::_

Cecilia's abdominal muscles clenched as she smothered her mouth with one hand to avoid snickering out loud at the drill-like sound of Irien's apparatus. Sonja, ever self-possessed and self-controlled, only flashed a smirk Cecilia noticed out of the corner of her eye.

"Sorry," Irien apologized insincerely. "I was just using this mechanized gun polisher. To polish my gun. Which I use for shooting."

There was a split second where Vernon lost his composure and almost shot the sarcastic elf a dirty look before plastering yet another layer of false bravado on his face. He cleared his throat one more time before beginning again.

"As I was saying, my dear Sonja, it's funny that you'd ask. There's a fascinating contest that-"

_::BBBBBBZZZZZZZZZZZ::_

Cecilia had to actually turn toward the wall and pretend to be adjusting her gauntlets to avoid revealing the ear-to-ear grin on her face. Sonja, despite her usual aversion to cruelty, only closed her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her exotic, aquiline nose with a finger while trying to conceal her amusement.

"Sorry, that was me again. I'll try to clean it without running the motor." Irien had the most honest, unemotional poker face one could imagine.

Vargas turned slightly red in the face before turning back to Sonja. "Anyway, there will be a dancing contest at the Broken Keel-"

_::BBBBBBZZZZZZZZZZZ::_

"Finger slipped."

"There will be a dancing contest at the Broken Keel Tave-"

_::BBBBBBZZZZZZZZZZZ::_

"Slipped aga-"

"It's open floor tonight-"

_::BBBBBBZZZZZZZZZZZ::_

"-and anyone is welcome-"

_::BBBBBBZZZZZZZZZZZ::_

"-to participate in a contest for couples and-"

_::BBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ::_

"I'll just come back later!" Vladmir said as he threw his hands up in frustration and stomped down the hall.

Stuffing the apparatus into a drawer full of a dozen fake IDs with her picture on them, Irien strapped her rifle to her back and pulled a pair of oversized neon green sunglasses from one of her pockets and flipped them on dramatically. The trio spend some time donning their weapons and adjusting their gear as though the whole exchange hadn't even occurred before the familiar footsteps of the only male on board who was welcome to stand in their doorway could be heard.

Sauntering just a step into the female crew's bunk, the short, leather-clad gnoll with a sneer bearing a warmth than only his close friends could recognize checked the three with a polite, unassuming glance to be sure they were ready for work as they all greeted him. Irien reached out and affectionately ruffled the fur on top of the rugged hyena-man's head, a friendly gesture that almost anyone else would have been afraid to engage in knowing the mercenary's reputation.

"Nightshift uneventful?" she chuckled as the gnarled, battle-hardened gnoll leaned in to her scratching fingers.

His voice was rough, gruff and tough yet somehow welcoming. "NOTHING WORTH MENTIONING," Meatball snickered with a drowsy look in his eyes. "PEOPLE SLEEPING FINE. SERPENT MAN NOT MAKE PROBLEMS."

"He won' if he's as smart as ya make him out ta be," Sonja chimed in with her hands on the hilts of her ornately carved serrated daggers.

Meatball and the two other nightshift security enforcers were all as ready for a fight as the three daywalking friends, though everyone was slightly uneasy having a large naga who had supposedly betrayed his own people on board, even with the two private guards assigned to watch him.

Meatball nodded before turning to Cecilia. "CICI," he began with an insane laughter that they understood to be his serious voice. "FURBOLG FAMILY SITS AWAY, NOT SPEAKING TO PEOPLE. MAYBE DON'T UNDERSTAND COMMON."

She nodded, gladly accepting the hint. "I'm on it, don't worry. It's our job to protect and occasionally entertain."

Bidding the now nocturnal gnoll farewell, the three locked up and walked to the end of the low, narrow hall, all three of them ducking under the low overhang of the staircase as they ascended. The ship's captain, an stern goblin matron who was shockingly quiet for her people, was quite generous in allowing the enforcers to divide their labor and mediate their disputes without interference.

Sonja parted ways first, only ascending a single flight of the stairs before heading for the kitchen and the dining area, monitoring how much a given passenger had been drinking and ensuring that everyone paid for the food they were eating.

Irien stopped the next level up, choosing to walk the halls of the passenger bedroom deck. It was usually less eventful, though when tempers between friends and spouses did happen to flare, the sight of a six-and-a-half foot elf with a rifle wearing sunglasses indoors was often all that was needed to impress upon ornery passengers the establishment's disapproval of disturbances.

Finally, Cecilia emerged onto the upper deck by herself, her half-helmet providing some respite from the morning sun. Her tower shield was clipped on to a ridge running along the upper back of her body armor, visible to all though not weighing down her left arm; much of their job was about intimidation and awe rather than actually roughing up potentially rowdy passengers. The moon glaive attached to her right bracer - goblin made like the rest of her gear but still sharp enough to make a point - was formidable even with the years of disuse in Booty Bay and lack of real time to practice while on the ship.

Standing by the railing for a moment, Cecilia reverted to sentinel mode briefly and scanned the entire deck. It was a long ship, and there were roughly seventy passengers crammed into the twenty-five rooms of the first level below - all of them either families or groups, with the exception of the naga snitch who slept out under the stars with one of his two guards.

Just under half of the passengers were on the deck that morning, most of them seated at one of the twenty or so scattered lightweight tables unevenly dotting the surface. A few were leaning over the railings and marveling at the contrasting blues of the sky and sea, the three deck attendants - the only other crew members present aside from Cecilia - constantly reminding passengers not to lean too far. People of a multitude of races and cultures were sharing stories and mostly non-alcoholic drinks as they chatted quietly, most of them speaking Common.

To one side, she noticed the furbolg family Meatball had mentioned - what she recognized as a male and a female and two small children. Their table wasn't any further away from those of the other groups of patrons, but they seemed in their own world. Who she assumed were the winded parents were trying their hardest to entertain the two furry children who appeared too shy to interact with the human and draenei children at the tables next to them.

Cecilia moved in their direction, pulled forward by her empathy; she knew very well what it felt like to sit in a room full of people while still feeling invisible. None of the family members looked up at her as the giant elf approached - she was as tall as the father, but they must have been so used to being ignored on the ship that they assumed she was merely passing by.

"How old are they?" Cecilia asked out loud in Ursine, garnering immediate glances from the humans and draenei mingling with their own children at the next two tables.

The mother furbolg looked up, not particularly shocked at a night elf speaking their language - it was not uncommon - though certainly a bit meek at all of the eyes now focused on them.

"They are...two...and...four...years old." The mother did not appear to be particularly old, but her method of speech was slow and plodding even in her own language, as was the habit of their people.

Showing a warmth that clashed with her fierce appearance while donning heavy plate armor and a razor sharp glaive, Cecilia kneeled down to extend her weapon-free hand to the furry children to examine. Even while kneeling, her head was about level with that of the male human peasant seated immediately next to her, and the large former sentinel was gradually attracting even more attention to the black-furred family.

The children obviously recognized night elves as allies, and began running their little paws across the unarmored palm of her hand, marvelling at the difference in texture.

"Are you from Nightsong Woods?" Cecilia asked of both parents, ensuring that her voice was loud enough for the next few tables to hear the language of the furbolgs being spoken.

Two draenei and three humans - all under the age of five - scooted up on the deck to stare. Both the adults at the tables and the children sitting on the floor formed a sort of half circle around the bear family who suddenly seemed more interesting to the people around them. The furbolg children didn't seem to notice, though the father seemed irked at the possibility of becoming a spectacle.

"Half of Ashenvale...is...Nightsong Woods," the father replied with a calm voice but an unfriendly face. The human male had turned in his chair now, his farmer's smock wrinkling as he looked at the furbolg father not as a spectacle so much as an object of fascination.

Cecilia was undaunted, her plan unfolding as she had intended. "I'm from a place now called 'Serenity Grove,' just outside the far western border of Nightsong." Her Ursine was crisp, fluent and far less accented than her Common. She smiled plainly at the two parents as the furry children began touching her thorium bracers, trying her best to open up the conversation.

"You speak the bear people's language?" asked one of the draenei children in her own accented Common as she approached and stood a bit closer than the older furbolg child seemed used to.

Yes, this was working. She turned to the mother quickly. "The girl is asking about your language," she chuckled in Ursine. Although she was trying to make them feel as welcome as possible, the warmth in her voice was sincere and it showed. She turned back to the draenei girl, switching to Common effortlessly. "Yes, many of my kind understand the Ursine language as I do, or the Taurahe language as many others do. We have shared Kalimdor for a long time."

The furbolg father remained stiff in his sturdy chair, though the mother began eyeing the draenei girl and their own older child. She seemed to understand what Cecilia was doing, and clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth to grab her older child's attention. "Say hello to...the nice...girl, I think...it is."

The father shot the mother a somewhat irritated look, though she ignored him as she gave their older child an approving nod. Slowly and shyly, the furbolg child turned and extended a paw toward the draenei that appeared to be about six years old.

Not wanting to appear rude, one of the draenei females leaned forward over their table to address who Cecilia understood to be a neice or other younger relative. "Prithvi, what do we do when someone extends a hand?" The draenei table remained silent but watched as their younger compatriot, unspoilt by the prejudices of adults, took the furbolg's paw without hesitation.

The adults at the three tables smiled, some of them sincerely and some of them with some effort, the uncomfortable silence still linering. It didn't take Cecilia long to jump in again as she remained kneeling at the empty space in front of the triangle of tables.

"Who is that?" she asked in Common as she motioned to a younger draenei that looked to be about half the girl's age.

"Vahit," the smaller draenei answered for himself, looking toward Cecilia.

Without prompting, the older furbolg child turned to a human child who had waddled up next to the group and begun to stare. "Who is that?" the furry child parroted in Common. The humans took it for granted to hear their language spoken, though the draenei adults as well as the furbolg child's own parents all became wide-eyed.

"He's Marcus," a slightly older human girl said as she moved forward and patted the young boy's shoulder. She was wearing a plaid skirt and wide-rimmed glasses, and appeared to be a bit more mature than the other children based on her demeanor and lack of shyness. She motioned to the three human adults behind her, ostensibly her family, as she addressed the stoic furbolg father. "Westfall. We are from Westfall."

The adult human female leaned forward with her elbows on the table as she let out a soft, almost infectious laugh at the bespectacled youth. Spying her out of the corner of her eye, Cecilia turned her head toward the farmer's wife with a sweeping motion to catch her attention.

"This family," Cecilia said in Common with a motion of her hand to the furbolgs, "are from Ashenvale."

The furbolg father understood the word 'Ashenvale' and noticed Cecilia's error, though didn't realize that it was intentional. "What you say...is not...true. We are...Blackmaw," he lectured in Ursine.

"He said Blackmaw," stated the bespectacled human girl in Common. "Is that a tribe?" She had turned her entire body to face the furbolg father despite his inability to understand her.

"She's asking about your tribe," Cecilia addressed to the mother in Ursine, finding the furbolg female to be more open to conversation.

The mother tightened her grip on an old wooden staff in her hand, leaning forward with a wide grin on her muzzle. This was going well. "Blackmaw are...from...Darkshore."

A large draenei adult wearing overalls scooted his chair closer toward the furbolgs, almost falling over in the process and garnering some laughs from the children of all three races. "Darkshore, eh? We have Stillpine furbolgs in the Azuremyst Isles," he said in Common, his curiosity overpowering any apprehension about communicating with the large bear people.

There were now nine children of all three races huddled around. Somehow, Cecilia hadn't even noticed that the older human girl had pulled out a stack of laminated cards differentiated from one another only with colors and different numbers of dots; understandable no matter what language one spoke.

The furbolg father's face didn't betray any sort of friendliness, though his voice softened noticeably. "Stillpine...Azuremyst. Blackmaw...Darkshore. Thistlefur...Ashenvale."

"Ashenvale!" interrupted the human male in Common, as seemed to be the tendency of so many like him. "I met some furbolgs in Ashenvale once." He raised his eyebrows and hands to demonstrate that he was asking a question. "Thistlefur...where in Ashenvale?"

Cecilia stood up to allow the large furbolg father to lean in closer, and the twitching of his ears indicated that his hearing might not be what it once was.

As she moved around the edge of the human table to push in an empty chair, she dodged two small humans and what appeared to be - much to her surprise - a dwarven _child_ who came running when they saw the flashy colors of the playing cards. The rest of the adults followed the lead of the chatty human and now less gruff furbolg males, scooting their chairs over so they could listen to one another better as they mimed and acted out the various locations they had all visited and attempted to explain words in the two languages they were speaking.

Cecilia had not even been able two take two more steps after dodging the children before there was a tap on her arm - noone on the ship other than her two bunkmates and perhaps the male draenei and furbolg would have been tall enough to tap her shoulder. And one other that she was about to be reminded of...

"Miss Warden," a whiny voice asked in Common as Cecilia turned to look. Standing next to her was a blonde high elf wearing the long white gown associated with priestesses across multiple cultures on Azeroth.

Cecilia chuckled at the way she was being addressed, though she still held a straight posture as she always did when on patrol. "Greetings, priestess," she answered in Thalassian that sounded just as good as that of a native speaker.

"Oh! Well," the priestess squeaked in surprise at hearing her own language spoken so well from Cecilia's violet-blue lips. "The naga has developed a nervous tick and is acting strange. Some of the other passengers are scared and even the knight guarding him seems nervous, but nobody wants to say anything because they keep hoping he just stops."

"Lead the way," Cecilia ordered, nudging the high elf out in front as she moved toward the bow of the ship where the large green coils were sitting.

"What? Me?" the high elf priestess sputtered nervously as she pointed to herself. "I'm just the messenger!"

Cecilia put her weaponless left hand around the much shorter elf's shoulder, urging her along. "I'll protect you if you protect me," she joked quietly in Thalassian again, doing her best to comfort the obviously jittery priestess.

As they walked up the steps toward the raised platform of the front of the hull, a number of nervous patrons began to sneak glances at the two elves approaching the armored knight with a blue-and-gold tabard standing a healthy distance away from the green mass.

The naga male was massive, and clearly a former Myrmidon among his people before he sold them out. No sentient being Cecilia had met - not the tauren at Booty Bay, not the ogres she occasionally worked with on ships, not even her jailer-turned-savior Garot'jin - were as tall or bulky as this thing in front of her now. He was scaly and appeared to be naked, though the concept was likely lost on his accursed people. Although he had lips capable of quite intelligent speech, his jaws were robust and could easily bite through her armor. His imposing coils rose into a bulky, muscular upper body with a barrel for a chest and two broad shoulders lining his slouched, curved, sail-topped back. His webbed ears wiggled as he heard them approaching, though he did not turn to face them as he pulled a rope with which he was hauling up a bucket of sea water from over the side of the railing.

The human knight saw the two women approaching, and seemed relieved to have the night elf wearing a sentinel's armor there. Cecilia was tall enough that while the naga intimidated the people a bit more than she did, it obviously wouldn't be able to push her around - especially without a weapon.

"William Argyle, Knight of Stormwind," the human said with a salute, identifying himself as a member of the well-known but unimaginatively named guild of dogooders. "Lady Watcher, the creature appears...disturbed. It doesn't speak Common so we've been unable to figure out what's wrong, but a number of your ship's patrons are frightened."

Cecilia smiled at the knight politely and held her military posture as she gave an understanding nod. "Thank you for informing me, Sir William," she addressed in the most formal sounding voice she could muster in Common. "Our priestess here will aid me in getting to the bottom of this."

The high elf's eyes grew even wider than they already were to the point where they seemed like they might pop out of their sockets. "Me?" she squeaked in a way that even Cecilia had to admit was cute. "What can _I_ do? You don't...you don't think it will hurt anybody, do you?"

The warrior chuckled reassuringly as she patted the high elf's back. Cecilia's plan was already coming to fruition; the naga's resentment at their condition generated a lot of defensive scorn as a result, and floating the monster's ego with initial nervousness from his distant cousin might put him in his comfort zone.

"Nazja is a sister language to Darnassian and Thalassian," Cecilia explained as she literally dragged the high elf over to the naga, who was keeping his back to them disrespectfully as he poured the bucket of sea water over his head and doused himself. "The differences are minor and exaggerated for political reasons. You'll understand."

A small group of human and draenei teenagers and foolhardy dwarven adults began moving closer to the stairs leading up to the bow as they listened to what was happening and pretended to converse with each other. The naga didn't even bother turning to face the two elves as he spoke in his deep, unnaturally echoing voice.

"I have nothing to say to your kind," he grunted in Nazja as an unintentional hiss escaped through his nostrils. Sir William was at full attention now despite appearing fatigued and the group of listeners all shuddered.

The former sentinel began examining the back of the former Myrmidon's head as he twitched when he spoke. Knowing that he was watching them from the corner of his eye, Cecilia didn't dare to point but she leaned it forward and made it very obvious to the priestess that she was examining his webbed ears and the tall, spiny sail on his back.

"If you have indeed left your people to seek quarter with an Alliance officer in Ratchet," Cecilia stated formally in Nazja just as fluent as his, "then there is no need for animosity between you and I. We are two individuals ensuring our own continued safety."

Before she had even finished her sentence, the monster turned to face her. His snakelike body allowed him to pivot around without the slightest hint of his intention until he was facing her, making the priestess and several of the onlookers jump. His shock at hearing his own language spoken so well by an outsider was quickly replaced as he reveled in his ability to terrify the other passengers.

"What do you think you know about me?" he grumbled in a gravely voice despite the satisfied smile spreading across his reptilian lips. His racially inherited arrogance was, once again, aiding Cecilia's plan to break down his barrier.

"I know that your name is Ghorlash Strashaz, and that you are an individual who has exercised his free will," the Kaldorei answered right back as she stood up even straighter, demonstrating to the gathering crowd that she felt no fear and - she hoped they realized - no animosity. "And I know that, while on this ship, you are under our protection."

The priestess' eyes began darting back and forth as she realized that she understood at least three-fourths of the conversation; as former elves, the naga spoke a language that shared much of its vocabulary and all of its syntax and grammar with Darnassian, which itself was _almost_ mutually intelligible with Thalassian if spoken slowly and without slang terms.

The naga named Ghorlash let out a pleased, closed-mouth chuckle as his ego was stroked. The crowd watching the exchange had grown to about ten people, all of whom were taken aback by the normally threatening creature sharing a hearty laugh.

Cecilia leaned in closer, members of the crowd gasping as she drew her head close to the toothy maw without fear. Sir William and the priestess were on edge.

"None of them can understand what we are saying now, my friend," she whispered calmly; the naga finally arched his rubbery brows in confusion at the word 'friend' and once again, gasps were heard from the crowd in response to his body language. "But you appear to be experiencing some sort of pain in your head or neck, and these shorter-lived races here are questioning your health."

Another deep hiss rumbled out of the monster's nostrils and he turned away, though the fact that he didn't move aggressively was slowly transforming the crowd's fear into fascination. He turned back, appearing to eye Cecilia suspiciously though it was difficult to read the expressions on a facial structure so different from her own.

"My condition is none of your business, Kaldorei," he grumbled defensively.

Cecilia stood unmoving now, not wanting to give her intentions away. "I am not my race," she answered confidently. "And you are not yours. We are individuals. I am a steward on this ship, and your wellbeing is part of my job. This priestess here has offered to inspect your ear - it appears to be causing you some discomfort."

For a split second, Cecilia could feel the high elf attempting to pull out of her hand, though she just gripped the priestess' shoulder even more tightly. Then, the most amazing thing happened - something that even broke the high elf out of her minor panic attack.

The naga bowed his head down and winced, raising a hand in the air toward his ear before dropping it back down to his side. His back curved even more to the point where he could lean on the railing, and his head was now level with that of the priestess. He tried to appear natural as he looked away, keeping his face hidden from the crowd. He almost seemed...embarrassed.

"Our employer insists that we see to the concerns of all guests on our ship," she said as she tilted her head and used the most sympathetic voice she could while still remaining professional. "Your health is our business, and there is no reason to shy away from requesting assistance."

The ex-Myrmidon continued staring into the ocean for a period of time before turning back toward the night elf first and then the high elf second, staying coiled down so as not to tower over them. Suddenly, the arrogance was peeled away as the reptile appeared almost sheepish.

Cecilia nudged her shorter companion to get her attention. "Would you be willing to lend us your powers of the Light to assist another living soul?"

The high elf looked up at Cecilia, realizing that she was now being put on the spot. Clasping her hands together, she turned nervously to the sea serpent that was now looking at her with an equal amount of shyness and discomfort.

"Wh-what seems to be the problem? Sir?" she asked in Thalassian.

The crowd waited with baited breath as the reptile stared into the high elf's glowing eyes without any of the malice they would have expected. His breathing hissed through his nostrils as his left ear continued to twitch, and Cecilia could feel Ghorlash suddenly understanding that he, too, possessed a vulnerability inside.

"My ear..." he started in Nazja; the priestess covered her mouth with one hand as she realized they could speak to each other as long as they paused between sentences. "There is pain in my ear. And pressure in the left side of my head. It started yesterday."

The high elf looked at Cecilia for reassurance before continuing. "I think...um, sir. I think you might have an ear infection. Can I...or, may I...would you? I need to look," she squeaked. To even Cecilia's shock, she heard a twinge of excitement in the high elf's voice mixed in with the apprehension and fear.

The naga's slit-like eyes jiggled slightly as he thought over her words in his head, filling in the parts he didn't understand based on the context of the entire phrase. He gave no direct response through speech or body language, and only turned his head to offer his webbed ear to the priestess. Sir William placed his hand on the pommel of his sheathed sword as the high elf placed one hand on Cecilia's forearm and the other behind the naga's slimy ear, inspecting it as gently as she would with any other patient.

"It's a minor infection," she said slowly in Thalassian but unknowingly mimicking his accent. "I can cure it if...um...I can cure it."

It was a bizarre moment. The high elf and the naga both seemed to share each other's awkwardness at the situation, the hulking behemoth from the deep appearing as meek as the thin, squeaky priestess. He merely nodded, and with a golden glow of her hands similar to the sun's rays, she began to work the Light's magic into the side of the reptile's head. He leaned in and groaned without noticing what he was doing, and within seconds his ear stopped twitching.

Both the naga and his healer jumped slightly as the crowd of gawkers broke into spontaneous applause, earning a look of shock and awe from the knight and a pleased grin from Cecilia that she could no longer conceal. Before Sir William could even hold them back, two human teenagers, a balding gnome and a dwarf with a farmer's tan waring a white tank top had already ascended the stairs and were behind the priestess jammering away in Common.

"How did you heal the monster? Doesn't the Light burn monsters?"

"How did you talk to him?"

"Are you a reptilian humanoid?"

"I think the naga is a humanoid reptilian."

"You know what I think? I think..."

"Get out of here! The truth is..."

Cecilia tapped her boots on the deck to grab everyone's attention. "Thalassian and Nazja are sister languages," she announced in Common. "His people and our people share a common ancestor."

"His? It's a he?"

"Did elves evolve from naga?"

"Watch your mouth! Nothing evolves from anything, the Titans put us here five thousand years ago you heretic."

"I'm sure your fellow passenger would be glad to share his story with you," Cecilia said with a motion toward the green mass behind them that seemed a little less monstrous now. "Our priestess here can understand most of what he says and would be glad to recount his answers here for you."

"What?" she exclaimed in her mousy voice. "I-I can't translate! I don't know how!"

Cecilia ignored her as she turned to the naga. "The younger races here are fascinated by you," she said loudly as she switched to Nazja. "Every sentence they uttered is a question about your story. I must continue my rounds, but our priestess here would be glad to help you communicate with your fellow passengers."

The naga was so dumbstruck that he hadn't even noticed when Cecilia reached forward for a reassuring pat on his scaly forearm, and for the first time in her twelve-thousand years, she saw a bestial male naga flash a look of warmth in his snake eyes as he realized the people gathered around were looking up to him without fear or scorn.

Sir William took Cecilia's place next to the high elf and the naga as she descended the short steps from the bow of the ship, and she could hear the crowd chuckling and encouraging the priestess as she even laughed a bit at her own frantic nature as she tried to translate all the questions from Common being thrown her way.

Marching to the stern of the ship, Cecilia looked over the scene playing out before her. Several humans and a draenei were rapping their knuckles on a tabletop to a rhythm while the furbolg father from earlier blew over the top of an empty mead jug, forming a quaint form of music as children with pink, blue and furry black skin pranced with each other around playing cards they had long since flung across the deck.

The three attendants on deck were frantically accepting plates of food and drinks that had been brought from below, trying in earnest to dodge all the darting children as they delivered patrons their orders, with one group of dwarves randomly handing out pastries they had bought for the specific purpose of sharing with the other thirty someodd guests.

A suddenly confident high elven priestess was excitedly telling a story about giant krakken to a multiracial group of teenagers, laughing along with an almost jolly giant snake man as she asked confirmation questions in Thalassian to be sure of what she was translating into Common.

Feeling proud that she had done her part to bridge the gaps which stood between many of these people just minutes ago, Cecilia leaned forward on the railing, inhaling the oceanic air as she enjoyed the sun's warmth even if it did hamper her vision somewhat. This was a far cry from where she had been in Booty Bay just a few years ago.

* * *

The three day shift enforcers stood at attention as they bid the passengers farewell, the ramp leading to the dock at Ratchet creaking a bit under the weight of the naga as two Knights of Stormwind led him toward a waiting intelligence officer. Decked out in their eye-catching if impractical gear, Cecilia, Sonja and Irien merely stood and waved as the awe-struck patrons moved on to the port city and then to their final destinations, few of them even lingering for long. Humans, draenei, dwarves, gnomes, high elves, goblins and an unusually short stowaway orc using fake long ears to pose as a goblin all carried their luggage off, every single one of them flashing sincere, gracious smiles at the three female members of the dayshift enforcers as they stepped off the ship. All of them except for one group.

Slowly strolling toward the end of the exiting passengers were four night elves, all of them having split a single room below the deck. Composed of two obviously young women close to Irien's age and a mated couple likely born around the time of the Satyr War, they did their best to make it obvious that they were hanging near Sonja and Irien on the right side of the exit ramp and avoiding Cecilia on the left.

The two younger females were druids, and as such had obviously started their training only after the Third War and had likely trained as other classes previously. Both of them looked down at the wooden ramp as they passed the overly tall former sentinel, and Cecilia immediately knew that her dim, faded eyes were making them uncomfortable. Fel green was the color of many of those addicted to arcane magic; a faded, disappearing glow was associated with death. That Cecilia was obviously not dead alerted any of her kind to the fact that there was something they might view as "wrong" with her.

As the couple passed by, the other mature night elf female flashed Cecilia the most condescending, judgmental and downright hateful look she had received in a very long time. While the anger she wanted to feel was certainly there, the fallen warrior could not deny that there was also a certain measure of her own embarrassment. She knew her condition, knew her recent past and knew that her appearance - even with the new hair color - was disconcerting for other Kaldorei.

Noticing the conflicted look in Cecilia's barely-glowing eyes, Sonja waited for a break in the last exiting passengers and sauntered over to the other side of the ramp. Her typical trollish hips curved in a way that forced her to sway as she walked, and a few of the male passengers received dirty looks from their wives as they were caught checking out the Darkspear rogue in her bright red leathers that matched her hair.

"Ya gotta talent for connectin' people across cultures," Sonja whispered kindheartedly in Orcish as she set her own luggage down next to Cecilia. "Don' you ever let any ignorant people make ya feel like ya worth less than ya know ya are."

Though she did stave off the mild wave of shame she had felt from the previous condescension, Cecilia could not hide the comfort delivered to her by her friend's words. They hugged for a long time as Irien moved over to them as well, and it was only after they had shared a painful goodbye that they noticed a solitary human male standing on the docks after all the passengers and several crew members had passed by.

"It was a fun going away party last night," Irien said sadly as she tugged on one of Sonja's braids.

"It ain't goodbye, my dearest friends," the jungle troll answered as she picked up her luggage. "My contract for tha ship is done, but we all still be workin' for tha Steamwheedle Cartel. We gonna be in touch, so there's no reason ta linger here and make ourselves depressed."

"Debt free," Cecilia sighed with both satisfaction and a wistfullness as her guardian angel's departure dawned on her. "I never thought we would make it this far..."

Sonja silenced her with a wave of her three-fingered hand. "None of that, girl. It's just 'be seeyin' ya,' not goodbye."

After a few more minutes of small talk, Sonja turned to look at the despondent human male Cecilia assumed must be Erikur waiting on an empty pier just barely within hearing distance of their long ears. His clothes were disheveled, his hair matted down, and his red, dark ringed eyes made him look like he hadn't slept in days.

Sonja had spoken of him the night before as they celebrated the late end of her contract. She almost seemed pompous as she bragged about having him wrapped around her finger and chasing after her even after not having seen her for years, how he and his sister Esmerelda would meet her at the docks and he would follow like a lost puppy as Sonja and Esmerelda would reminisce about the old times.

As Sonja approached the man that looked like he had been through hell and back, the chip on her shoulder that appeared whenever she spoke about him was gone without a trace. Her walking became uneven, and just before her face moved out of view Cecilia could have sworn that she saw the female troll's lip quivering. They stood on the pier some distance apart, staring at each other as Erikur refused to bridge the gap between them. This was not the unconfident, desperate suitor Sonja had always described.

"Where's Esmerelda?" Sonja asked with concern, loudly enough only for others of the long-eared races to hear.

The human man paused for a long time before replying in Orcish with no emotion in his voice. "She told you in her last letter. We had accepted a quest in the Plaguelands."

"So she's in tha Plaguelands, then?" Sonja asked in a hushed, desperate voice that broke slightly. "She's okay, right? Erikur?"

Erikur stared right through her, no apparent emotion on his face. "My sister always liked you, Sonja."

As the troll woman reached forward to brush the significantly shorter human man's hair from his face and tuck it behind his ear, Cecilia tugged Irien back onto the ship.

"What?" the shorter elf asked insincerely. "We just got to port, we have a few hours to kill."

Shaking her head in disapproval, the former sentinel continued pulling the sharpshooter out of earshot of the tearful reunion. "This conversation is not for us," Cecilia lectured quietly, waiting up on the ramp until Erikur lifted Sonja's luggage and led the crestfallen troll up the pier, onto dry land and out of their view in the busy streets of her and his new home city.

Irien continued looking at the end of the pier even after the odd couple had dropped out of view, her mouth opening to say something before shutting again. She turned to her elder Kaldorei without her usual brashness.

"Cecilia...you're going to stay, right? Even though your debts to the cartel are paid off?" Irien's eyes were filled with concern as she looked up to her new role model, the fear of separation apparent.

The taller of the two ruffled her hair with one hand, enjoying the breeze as it ran through her newly colored locks. She needed a moment to finally consider where she was.

She had come so far. Though the atrocities she had committed at Warsong Gulch still haunted her memory, her dreams had calmed down and Cecilia was finally able to rationalize her continued existence despite the guilt permanently imprinted on her heart. She had abandoned her family and only wrote to her sister - a sister she had run out of town, a sister she had abused so much and yet a sister that still loved her unconditionally - a single time since leaving Kalimdor without enough money, social skills or knowledge of keeping a budget.

Cecilia had gotten herself fired from numerous jobs that were beneath her, lived on the backs of others, woken up next to strange men and even women, and eventually found herself alone in a gutter with her mortality staring her in the face every time she saw her own eyes in a mirror. Yet somehow, despite odds she understood well from the miserable situation of Angela's other adoptive daughters, Cecilia had survived. She scraped by, she did many more things she wasn't proud of and she had relied solely on the help of Sonja and Irien at some points, but she had survived. She had work. She had friends. She was debt free. She was free, period.

But did she deserve to be?

The question still passed through her mind on many nights. She tried to convince herself that it was the transition to a diurnal schedule, but she knew it was deeper than that. When she lied alone in bed, left to her thoughts, the solace that her nightmares had grown so infrequent could not always stave off the burning question in her conscience. Morally, the poison she had pumped in her veins in back alleys only damaged her own self; that paled in comparison to the innocent blood she had spilled at Warsong. Cecilia murdered people - most of them civilians. There was no denying that.

Why hadn't she been killed there too?

Why hadn't she just been sold off at auction to some opium den once she was captured?

Why had she been allowed to escape?

Cecilia closed her eyes again, ignoring Irien's quizzical expression. Whatever the cosmic ethics of her situation, she survived, she thrived, she succeeded. She was free. The world was open to her; she had a new identity, and could start over wherever she pleased. Even if she didn't deserve it, this was her situation now. Without a sense of greater purpose, though, and without a stronger sense of self worth, she was at a loss as to where to go next when every path - for someone like her - seemed wrong...

Her eyes shot open as she felt a pleasant burn on her armored wrist. She looked down past Irien, seeing that the sharpshooter hadn't touched her, and that her arm was still covered - nothing had touched her.

But she knew what she felt was real. It was as real as the hand that had guided her along so many years ago, leading her off that ledge. Leading her to that ravine, and that soothingly burning mark had lead her to that hill. The same hill she stood on so many years ago. The path seemed wrong then, but the hand that guided her along led her to her freedom. A freedom that, after five years of living in hell, of living with ghosts, she had finally attained.

Knowing the direction the hand was leading her in, Cecilia lowered her gaze to Irien's concerned face.

"Well?" Although the younger elf was by no means short, Cecilia was an imposing warrior and had been a fine sentinel during the Vigil; there was almost an entire foot of difference in height.

She smiled at Irien warmly, placing a hand on her shoulder as she led her younger toward Ratchet. "What was it you were telling me the other day about that tattoo artist you know at the next port over?" Cecilia asked with a wink. "The one that can alter the coming-of-age tattoos of our people?"

Irien appeared confused at first before suddenly gasping in delight. Catching Cecilia off guard, she threw her arms around her sister Kaldorei like a big, giddy human as she jumped up and down. "Ohmigoddess I was so worried you would leave me too! I was so bored on this ship before you and Sonja came!"

The two walked along the pier slowly, detailing their plans at the next few ports to each other as they headed toward Ratchet, making sure to stay far away from the Broken Keel Tavern.

* * *

The two of them sat on top of the hill in silence now, Cecilia's breathing noticeably heavier after all the talking. She had bled almost her entire life story out to him - at least, the parts of her life she said mattered in terms of her development and her path toward recovery. She seemed to brush off any mention of the Long Vigil and the thousands of years of immortality as a living dream that all melded together into one boring memory.

But when she spoke of her years since night elves lost immortality...Khujand could feel the emotion, feel the passion in her speech, feel the stress that recounting it all caused her to experience all over again. They were both cross legged, their bare thighs touching as she leaned her unarmored head on his shoulder while they stared at the stars just above the camp off in the distance.

Khujand had hung on every word. Every single word of this amazing woman's life story was like an incredible story he knew he would never forget. And he felt guilty for it...so guilty. As loose as her neck was as she leaned in to him, he could sense the distress that retelling all the pain, all the shame, all the regret in her heart caused to her. He couldn't help but feel that he was coercing her into digging up these demons.

"Cici..." he started, his voice almost a whisper.

Despite the exhaustion he could feel rising from her, that breathy voice still managed a soft chuckle. "Don't apologize," she chastized him quietly. "I told you once, and I will tell you again: I want to share. So much. I've waited for years to be able to do this with someone who understands."

"Thank ya," he answered without looking down. "Thank ya so much, from tha bottom of my heart. I can't esplain it, but...it means a lot. Ta hear how ya suceeded."

"I hope it does help you, Khujand. You helped me, both last night and at Warsong. I hope you're able to succeed as well."

And with that, they merely sat, neither of them finding anything else to say on that night. The sparse trees around them almost reminded him of Ashenvale if he focused on the sky instead, pretending that the trunks were much thicker than they were.

Khujand suddenly felt very un-troll-like. Here he was with a beautiful woman he suspected was also attracted to him. They had shared their entire lives with one another, and she was in as vulnerable a position as he thought possible for her.

Other Darkspear men would be trying to put some sort of a move on her now. Perhaps trying to run a hand along her hip, or searching for the clasp on the back of her armor.

Yet he didn't want to do that. It only crossed his mind through his own amusement at his atypical behavior; not even as some dark desire he had to fight off.

At that moment, at that place, with that person, he couldn't imagine any other position he'd want to be in. He could ask a million questions. Ask about why she mentioned her jailer - him - having helped her during her stories. About the path seeming wrong until an unseen hand guided her. About...well...he no longer cared about thinking of questions.

Just as she had described herself, Khujand could suddenly stop thinking. He only felt. Felt that moment, right there and then, as he and Cecilia sat right next to each other, counting constellations after having shared their entire being with one another.

For the first time in a very, very long time, he admitted to himself that he just might actually feel happy.


	19. Politics

The canvas walls of the tent were enough to keep the sun's intrusion out without creating a particularly hot or humid atmosphere inside. The smell of dinner being cooked and, moreover, the somewhat heated discussion outside was enough to rouse Khujand from his slumber that late afternoon. Having not only dreamt of the good last night but enjoyed it, he was able to wake up slowly and collect his thoughts before getting dressed and moving outside.

"We're leaving tomorrow morning," Kiul asserted from somewhere outside the tent. "We can finish this later; we've completed everything now so let's just enjoy the evening."

Yes, it was coming back to the sleepy-eyed jungle troll now. That was the second day of surveying the valley and measuring how long it would take to send letters or whatever they had needed to do with all those lenses and canvas sheets. This would be his last night patrolling, then.

"Give hem a chance te answer ye," Vegnus replied calmly.

"What if this leads to heatings!" Was Anushka capable of remaining calm and carrying with anything? Every sentence she said seemed to be urgent and nervous.

"It won't lead te anything dearie, I'm jest saying that ye ought te ask hem yerself," Vegnus continued. Khujand was the only other man there and had already guessed that they were talking about him. He felt another political discussion coming.

Exiting the tent fully dressed – or, as fully dressed as a troll wearing a loincloth and pauldrons could be – he stepped carefully over to the campfire, doing his best to create noise so they would know he was there. Perhaps they would pipe down and change the subject, and he could avoid being the only member of the Horde in an Alliance camp. Friends or no, he didn't know the three draenei that well (or any draenei for that matter), and pissing off the people who provided him with food and shelter in exchange for protection would have been a bad idea.

Yaromira and Kiul were seated across from him on one of the three logs forming a triangle around the campfire, while Vegnus was sitting across from them; Anusha was standing behind the two other draenei while Irien was standing at the edge and looking over the valley without her goggles. Cecilia had already awoken and appeared to be donning her armor judging by the movement inside her tent.

"Khujand, come over here," Vegnus said heartily as he waved the large man over. "We're having a very interesting discussion-"

"About work," Kiul interjected.

"And politics!" Vegnus didn't appear ready to drop the issue. If the discussion had to happen, at least it was being pushed by the dwarf; the conversation they had on the hike back from the Laughing Skull encounter had been so chummy that he and Khujand momentarily forgot they belonged to two different factions.

"I'm more interested in tha food," he mumbled, trying to sound funny. Anushka watched him for a moment as he sat down next to Vegnus and across from Yaromira and Kiul, hesitating before she brought him the food they had cooked. There were more bits of bird meat, boiled berries and vegetables and what appeared to be half of some sweet potato-like root.

The draenei couple attempted to make small talk about the plans for the trek back to Beastwatch tomorrow and how, without Sandash, Khujand would need to function as a sort of chaperone in the settlement. Although they did have written documents from a Horde commander there giving them permission to enter and work, that didn't guarantee that the denizens would be willing to serve them food or leave them unmolested. He was happy to do it, considering that they probably helped him more than he had helped them.

Cecilia approached and sat at the empty log, Irien still perched on the ledge behind her. Anushka brought the elf warrior breakfast as well, and then promptly returned to stand behind the other two draenei; she was fidgety and ill at ease. Her spastic nature, however, made it impossible to determine if the discussion up until then had really been tense or not.

"So Khujand," Vegnus started while ignoring the fact that Kiul was shaking his head, "Kiul here had been asking about yer affiliation, seeing as how ye said in the first day that ye function kind of independently back in Frostfire Ridge."

"Will you joining the Alliance?" burst out Anushka. She was, once again, the object of stares from the entire group. There was another one of their trademark long silences.

"Eh, no, I'm quite happy with tha way things are goin' right now," the wannabe Shadow Hunter replied.

"Please joining the Alliance!" she burst out again. "Pandaren can joining the Alliance!"

Yaromira jumped in. "I think what she meant to say is that we're glad that you're here to help us. We stopped through Beastwatch once when we met Sandash but we didn't stay long, and we're not sure-"

"Isn't the Iron Horde resultings from the not Iron Horde?" The spaz just wouldn't give up.

"There's a good question!" laughed Vegnus. He appeared jolly, but he hadn't seemed like an instigator before. Strangely, Irien didn't get involved despite having pushed Khujand for an argument a few days ago.

He suddenly became self-conscious about the night before. Cecilia had already been stirring before he had woken up; had the two of them spoken? How much did Irien know?

"Khujand," Vegnus said with a shove that interrupted his thoughts, "do ye think the real Horde is responsible fer what's happening now?" The dwarf didn't seem to believe it; perhaps this wasn't an ambush after all.

All three of the draenei were listening for what he would say now.

"People are people," he said with little enthusiasm. "They make choices. They're responsible for tha choices they make. Tha Horde chose ta get rid of Garrosh."

"That's because the human monarch Wrynn ejectings Garrosh from Ogretown!" Despite her normally spastic behavior and seeming disconnect with reality, Khujand thought, Anushka was surprisingly cogent when it came to this topic.

Prison-borne paranoia could be cogent as well, though. Focusing on her friends, Khujand decided that some dischord would be his defense. "Kiul, did Wrynn overthrow Garrosh?"

"What?"

"Did that guy Wrynn overthrow Garrosh?"

Eyes were on Kiul now, who was forced to contradict his friend. "Well, no, it was a group effort really-"

"And how did tha Horde get its new leader?"

There was silence. The enormous troll had been a benevolent protector content to follow directions so far. This was the most assertive he had behaved in front of the non-elves.

"The rest of the Horde's leadership knelt and recognized Vol'jin," Kiul answered suspiciously.

"So tha people of tha Horde don't want Garrosh then, do they?"

Yaromira cleared her throat. "I think what some people are bothered by is the unprovoked war started by the Horde under Garrosh's leadership. So many of our people lost their lives, good people that didn't want to fight."

Keeping a respectful tone for someone who was almost like his boss during his stay in their camp, Khujand still didn't give anyone else a chance to chime in. "What is tha Horde?"

Vegnus leaned closer with a raised eyebrow, listening closely. Irien's ears pricked up, but she didn't turn around.

Kiul licked the inside of his cheek and remained guarded in his expression. "Could you qualify that question?"

"No," Khujand answered, "I can't, cause that's what I'm tryin' ta get out of all ya all. What is tha Horde?"

Anushka jumped in, her voice as high pitched as ever. "Their capitol beings Ogretown and they-"

"Who are 'they'?" he interrupted.

"The Horde!"

"Who _are_ they?"

The three draenei were now staring at Vegnus, who was grinning wide. Khujand didn't know their history together or the reason for Vegnus' grin, but the others were obviously put off by his reaction. The jungle troll decided to put them off even more.

"Are there draynay who do awful things?" he asked with a cocked eyebrow. "Like some of those cultists in tha Shadowmoon Valley?"

Yaromira and Kiul both looked like they had been hit in the face. "We know of them very well," the boss lady answered.

"Should I hold Anushka responsible for tha stuff they do?" he said with his old interrogator's voice. Cecilia began eating a bit more slowly as she followed the conversation.

Anushka's eyes widened as the other two draenei looked incredulous.

"Why would you saying that?" she said with a hand over her mouth, looking quite offended.

Vegnus showed his loyalty in the conversation by jumping in, clearly enoying this. "Was Sandash responsible fer what Garrosh did?" he chuckled. The feeling Khujand had yesterday that the dwarf was a wiseguy was correct.

Yaromira seemed to be listening to Vegnus, but her husband wasn't having any of it. "Sandash was a kind soul, but this isn't about individuals. I am asking about factions."

"What is tha Horde?"

"A faction."

"What'sa faction made from?"

"It doesn't break down any further than that."

"So whodya have a problem with?"

"The Horde."

"Where are they?"

"In Horde towns."

"Livin'?"

"Of course they're living Khujand, where are you going with this?"

"Who lives in towns?"

"People, why would you even ask-"

"So ya gotta problem with my people?" he said while grinning childishly. "Why do ya trust me ta protect ya?"

Yaromira jumped in as Kiul became visibly upset, his lips pursing tightly. "Nobody has a problem with anybody, and we're happy to have you here-"

"Please to joining the Alliance! We don't wantings you be with the bad guys!" the spaz...spazzed? Is that a verb?

"Was Sandash a bad guy?" Vegnus burst out laughing toward Anushka with his palms out, speaking as though he were half-joking and half-serious.

"We're all behaving neutrally regardless of our ideals," Irien said loudly from the edge of the ledge. "We get paid for shipping mail regardless of the sender's faction or subfaction. We all make a living by doing that."

"But our people have joined the Alliance," Kiul huffed with his arms crossed. Yaromira tugged on his folded arms and began whispering something to him as Irien rolled her eyes went back to watching the sun set (moon rise?) over the valley.

Addressing nobody in particular, Vegnus began is own rant. "We got our fare share of baddies, too. Nobody is innocent."

Kiul started to answer, but Yaromira stopped him and the dwarf continued.

"Garrosh started as Horde, Arthas started as Alliance. Zul'jin was part of the Horde, Maiev Shadowsong was-"

"**Maiev Shadowsong is a loyal heroine of our people whose only crime was doing her JOB!**"

It was pure irony that a real, actual tumbleweed rolled by after Cecilia's outburst, which had been so forceful that everyone became temporarily deaf-mute. Standing behind the glaring valkyrie and out of her view, Irien frantically waved her arms back and forth in a long sweeping motion to send the universally understood 'don't go there' signal to the rest of the group. There was obviously a whole other level of politics with Cecilia and all the other ancient elves.

Taking the hint, Khujand quickly changed the subject. "Anyway, Variant Ren ain't so good, either. Even some of ya in tha Alliance have been whisperin' that he just wants ta start another long, pointless war with us."

Yaromira was already looking at her husband. "Alright, let's-"

"No!" Kiul said with a normal volume but insistent tone. "The Horde started this just as they started the fight so long ago against our people!"

"There was no Horde before tha orcs came ta Azeroth," Khujand retorted casually. "Ya problem should be with tha Burnin' Legion."

"Yes!" answered both husband and wife.

"So tell King Chin ta stop his warmongerin' ways now that tha real Warchief of tha Horde promised ta fight only defensive wars," Khujand said as he leaned forward on his knuckles, not realizing that he appeared a bit threatening that way. Vegnus took him by the arm and pulled him back to the log when Anushka jumped.

"I! I don't know anything about such talk," Kiul said angrily as Yaromira began whispering to him in whatever language draenei speak. "Maybe on your side, but we respect Velen's decision!"

Sitting up straight as his social awkwardness was now entirely forgotten, Khujand dealt the coup de grace. "So if nobody on ya side says this, why does SI:7 spend so much of its time killin' journalists?"

"What?!" exclaimed all three draenei. Vegnus was in stitches and even Irien was laughing.

"Khujand," Yaromira reasoned with a sincere look, "those are just rumors."

"Every time somebody prints a gazette or a pamphlet about tha 'leadership' in Stormwind and how tha Alliance itches for war more now that Garrosh is gone," the giddy jungle troll stated as he punctuated each word in the monologue, "they go missin'? Really, do ya think we in that Horde don't hear about tha stuff that SI:7 _really_ does? Word travels fast."

"No!" Kiul asserted as he stood up. "I will not allow you to say this! Velen would not lead our people to join such a faction! That cannot be possible!"

"Totally possible," Irien muttered to herself with a smirk.

Yaromira stood up as well, trying to reason with her husband as they bickered quietly in their language.

"He's had enough, lad," Vegnus whispered as he leaned closer to Khujand. "He'll open up a bit te other cultures, we all need time te adjust at first." The jungle troll nodded and stood up, still unaware that his movement might appear aggressive to the staunch Alliance members.

"Hey, Kiul, it's just talk alright? Shootin' tha breeze around a campfire, it don't mean nothin'."

"That's right! Your claims have no meaning!" Although Kiul was as large as any other draenei man, he was still about a foot and a half shorter than Khujand as well as a civilian. Recognizing the man's puffed out chest to be some sort of a challenge, the troll backed down and slouched as he turned his head to the side. His time in prison had broken most of his ego apart; there was no reason to show up a civilian that had extended quite a bit of help to Khujand in front of the guy's wife.

Irien stifled a laugh, but the draenei male was serious, whatever he had intended by the last comment. The married couple continued arguing in their own language, immediately putting a hamper on everyone's mood as they all tried to find other things to look at.

Eventually, Yaromira switched to the site manager role and clapped her hands loudly. The discussion tapered off and Kiul turned to face Khujand.

"I, um...am very happy to make your acquaintance," he said in the direction of a tree off to Khujand's right. "I hope that we can continue our friendship in neutrality in the future."

"Aww, idn't that cute," cooed Vegnus sarcastically. He pursed his lips, causing his mustache to cover them as Yaromira sent him a glare.

"Ya, same back at ya," Khujand replied as his bemusement shone through. Not knowing what would be appropriate to do, he reached forward and gave Kiul a one-armed hug.

"See, this is how we should treat each other," Yaromira said with satisfaction.

Irien suddenly had an evil grin on her face. "Now take off your shirts and kiss!"

Kiul's eyes just about popped out of his head and even Yaromira looked a bit embarrassed. Anushka literally ran back to the tent she would later be forced to share with the liberal night elf and closed herself inside. Vegnus was dying of laughter.

"I'm already not wearin' a shirt ya smartass," Khujand grumbled, the realization of his awkwardness rushing back onto him. He and Cecilia seemed to be the only two who could contain their reactions as the married couple pretending to have some urgent business at the laundry drying rack, Irien doubled over cackling at her own joke.

The cutlery and cookware from dinner (breakfast for the two night patrolpeople) had been washed and put away and all three draenei had turned in for the night by the time the sun was down and the moon was up. Vegnus was sweeping up any waste material left around the camp, dousing the fire before he went to his tent. Cecilia had already suited up and started her patrol for the night - noticeably taking the high road this time - leaving her two friends there on their own.

Before leaving, Khujand approached Irien to pump her for information.

"So, I take it that Cici is one of those Maiev Shadowsong supporters?" he pryingly asked the shorter of the two elves.

Irien shot the Darkspear a knowing look that made him feel as though he were being trusted with a great secret. "Yeah and seriously, don't go there. Just don't. Look, Cici is from Suramar, and she's old as hell. Tyrande, Maiev, Malfurion, Shandris, Jarod, Shalasyr…not only did some of them live in the same part of the city as her but some of them also grew up around her. Though none of them would recognize her, she remembers them all and she gets really super opinionated about them and our government." She packed her gun away next to the women's tent and unstrapped her boots in anticipation for sleeping at night despite her biology.

"She _really_ doesn't like Tyrande," Irien warned with an arch of her eyebrows. "I'm just telling you this myself so you don't make the mistake of asking her about that. For serious, don't-"

"Right right, I heard ya tha first time," he muttered with a challenging smirk. Irien stuck her tongue out at him but then hesitated before returning to the tent. He was sure that she knew something.

"What else should I not ask Cici about?"

"Night, Khujand," she replied with a slightly mocking tone.

"So have ya been chattin' with her lately?"

"Sorry, can't hear you over my yawning," she said without yawning.

"I didn't get a chance ta talk ta ya yesterday."

"Your loss."

"What sort of things did ya talk about with her?"

"I'm going to go to my tent now."

"If ya were ta have talked with Cici yestaday, what sort of topics would ya have-"

"Sorry I can't hear you, I need to go harass Anushka some more."

Irien was speaking from inside the women's tent already, the object of her torment preemptively fretting in draenei language and then shrieking as she was probably being pinched.

With a sigh, he made his way down the slope and onto the paved high road, working his way between all the trees once he had reached the beaten path. It still took about five minutes, and he hoped that his intuition regarding his patrol partner's whereabouts was correct.

* * *

Before he had even quite reached the clearing, he could already hear the sound of Cecilia fiddling around with her shield and glaive, the sound of metal hitting sand audible to his long ears. He walked a bit faster, hoping for some time with her after the somewhat heated discussion earlier. The closer he got to the clearing with the wellspring, the more relaxed he felt.

Upon entering the clearing, he saw her already seated on the soft sand at the edge of the water, her arms around her knees and her hands clasped together. That long azure ponytail hung down from its high clip, the scrunchie which matched her tattoo color affixed over it.

"Your steps are too heavy," she said teasingly without turning. "I heard you from the time you left the ledge."

With their backs to the rock she had sat on that first night, they could just barely see the sheer rock wall lining one side of the camp, over the canopy, though not the camp itself through the trees.

"Stealth ain't really my thing," he answered mock-formally. "May I?"

She shot him a confused look for a second, then snorted a laugh through her nose. "Sit your ass down, mister."

The sand was comfortable as they sat, shifting their gazes from the rippling water on the surface of the wellspring to the stars above. It felt so peaceful there now, a sort of peace inside himself that he couldn't remember feeling in years. He wasn't shy to admit it now.

"Thank ya so much, Cecilia," he said while examining the constellations above. "I can't explain how ya did it. All ya did was talk, and let me finish sentences for ya. Sharin' seemed like any other normal talkin', but I understand what ya meant here on tha first night. About sharin' and findin' somebody ta understand."

Her voice was low, still with that soft, breathy tone that overpowered anything else within earshot. "Thank you too. Telling my goggle-wearing best friend is good, but it isn't the same as sharing it with someone else who did the kind of things I did back at Silverwing." She breathed deep, appearing to clear her mind before speaking again.

"I wish we had more than four nights here in this region. Here in this camp," she admitted with little shyness in her body language.

No amount of machismo or immature attempts to close himself off would let him deny the flutter that passed through his heart when she uttered that sentence. He paused, deciding not to blurt out something about seeing her again elsewhere like his inner voice was screaming for him to do. Not yet, anyway. The verbose subconscious seemed to be especially quiet lately. It felt both lonesome and liberating.

"We still have one night left here," he said, not finding the bravery to ask about what would happen after Beastwatch. "And ya never brought me up ta speed on how ya got here. Ya stopped at finally bein' debt free and sober, but that was a few years ago."

Cecilia turned to face him now, locking on to his eyes. She didn't look tired and she didn't look hesitant, but it seemed like...well, he wasn't social adept enough to really know. He felt like she wanted to say something that she felt she couldn't, but his feelings about other people's reactions and desires couldn't be trusted.

She looked to the wellspring once with a wistful expression and then turned back to him. Smiling politely in a way that seemed a bit forced, she opened her mouth to speak.

"If ya don't wanna talk, then I don't want ya ta," he interrupted. "I mean it. Ya already gave so much. I don't wanna abuse ya kindness."

She chuckled, her smile sincere now. "Stop saying that. And stop thinking it. We do have time, and I didn't finish yet even though you finished your story days ago."

"Ya story is more excitin'."

"To you," she said with a sly smirk, her mood gradually lightening up. "But this last part won't take long anyway. And then, we can talk about things relating to the present."

Khujand cleared his throat and pretended to have dropped something that required him to turn away from her momentarily, hoping that the heat in his ears didn't mean they were already darkening in color.


	20. Recovery

_Twenty-seven days ago._

An odd sense of calm had descended on the Shattered Beachhead that morning. It had been almost two weeks since the first wave of Azeroth's heroes – both Alliance and Horde – had marched through the Dark Portal leading to an alternate version of Draenor and destroyed the Iron Horde's portal on the other side. There was no news for more than a week, with many back on Azeroth wondering what had occurred on the other side.

The entire planet breathed a collective sigh of relief when the survivors of the initial assault on the Tanaan Jungle established contact, opening small portals to the major capitols of Azeroth. From Ironforge to Thunderbluff, crackles of energy appeared in the air in the quarters of those responsible for teleportation. The glowing cracks in the fabric of space-time were intermittent at first, but immediately recognized by various scholars as an attempt by some entity to establish contact across dimensions. After the same series of rushed, urgent meetings with leadership repeating themselves in every council and royal court, decisions were made – almost on the same afternoon – to reciprocate, open Azeroth's end of the portals and hope that whatever came through wasn't hostile.

Families were reunited while others were given news of the martyrdom of their loved ones who had joined the cause, and tales of the success in Tanaan, Shadowmoon and Frostfire were spread far and wide. Although much was still to be done in the joint effort to defend the planet from yet another interdimensional threat, there was much jubilation throughout the world due both to the initial victory and the establishment of a quick, if not efficient, means of transport back and forth.

And so the situation sat now, with Alliance and neutral ships coming and going at the swiftly (and somewhat shoddily) constructed docks as people and materials were shipped in. The portals at the capitol cities were large enough to accommodate small groups at a time and the Dark Portal to the alternate timeline in the Blasted Lands had been shut down for now. Regardless, there was much focus on the new portal to Shadowmoon Valley opened near the Beachhead itself by mages of the Kirin Tor; the coastal base had grown rapidly if haphazardly and it was a place of congregation as those wanting to support the campaign met, planned and stocked up on supplies.

Laborers wearing blue-and-gold tabards unloaded crates of food, materiel and fuel from the cargo ships waiting at the docks, piling the crates high on the red, cracked soil beyond the reach of the high tide. There were no roads nor even beaten paths given how young the settlement was, and aside from a storage hut constructed of piled stones and a wood thatch roof, every single structure was either a tent or some other kind of canvas tarp held up by poles or planks. There were at least thirty such tents now, some of them quite large, in addition to a number of adventurers waiting their turn camped out on the beach with towels and sleeping bags. Uniformed officers from all four of the major Alliance capitols had set up tables out in the open, scribbling down notes about how much food, pairs of gloves, bandages and armaments were being sent from where and at what time.

Their deputies did their best to keep the irregulars out of their hair, funneling them over to recruitment lines where basic information was taken down so they could either be placed where needed or, if they wanted to go it alone, so they could be tracked in case the Alliance wanted to contact them directly. Non-combatant contractors seemed to be the single largest group almost two weeks on; the fiercest fighting had both opened the way for civilians as well as created the need for them. Soldiers fighting on the alternate Draenor had fended for themselves for a period, but the planet's existing towns were not prepared for the sudden influx. The war effort required more food, more shelter, more weapons, more supplies, more clothing, more emergency medical care, and more services of all kinds. Now that there was a clear path that didn't involve a pitched battle, the civilian service providers flooded in. The goblin trade princes led the charge, raising barracks, infirmaries and supply distribution centers in a matter of days. The craftsmanship wasn't always the best, but that could always be handled later.

The sheer number of people roving around the camp that morning, most of them talking loudly and all very very busy, was impressive given that there were only thirty tents. The large majority of the people – from all the different races of the Alliance as well as some neutral, unaffiliated peoples – were in transit. A line had formed at the portal to Shadowmoon and the mages managing it were experiencing difficulty with the sheer number of unregistered, unknown irregulars lining up to join the campaign against the Iron Horde without having registered properly. The line stretched all the way into the first row of tents at the camp and the chaotic scene had caused many of the new recruits and enlistees to hang back at the beach, mingling around the refreshment tents to relax, wait and meet possible companions and contacts before they traveled to what could be their end.

Toward the edge of the camp waited a group of Horde emissaries from the Shattered Landing up north, their small transport ship anchored near the shore. Although they were not treated as friends and were left to socialize only with themselves, they were not mistreated and only a few of the more sheltered members of the Alliance shot them glares; with a threat on a global scale looming and a Warchief who didn't seem eager to poke the lion with a stick, their presence was tolerated and a handful of civilians and even Alliance soldiers offered them small amounts of water, snacks and basic provisions.

Several gnomish engineers wearing dirtied white jumpsuits and black goggles that hung around their necks spoke formally to the plainclothes goblin and orc leading the group of six emissaries, functioning as middlepeople between the Alliance leadership and the goblin merchants who organized the logistical side of the war effort. There was likely money changing between more hands than was necessary with all the contracting and subcontracting went on, but the relationships formed reduced the chance of interfactional fighting for the time being.

Situated at the far south end of the camp was a wide, rectangular tent with a low ceiling. A small placard was hung on a slightly open flap at the entrance with elven script written on it. The ground inside the tent was covered with a handwoven light green carpet laced with gold geometric designs, though it was difficult to see from the outside given that the entire tent was unlit. Roughly thirty people were either in the process of leaving and making their way to other facilities at the camp or meeting new people just in front of the placard. All of them were night elves, all of them women save a single apprentice druid and one armored male who appeared to have chosen the path of a sentinel. Though outsiders wouldn't be able to tell, the tones of voice among the thirty as well as the topics of conversation and certain cues through body language indicated that the majority of them were young for their kind – almost all between the ages of a few hundred to only one-thousand years old. Like most of their people they all had martial training as could be seen by their weapons and armor, but the fact that so many of them were also carrying various pieces of trade equipment and tabards or armbands for a plethora of service organizations made it apparent that they, like the majority from other races at the camp now, were irregular enlistees not a part of the official military orders.

One of the elves chatted politely to a group of five younglings, sharing a story that seemed to fascinate them. Her simple yet elegant evergreen dress with a gold trim conflicted with the metal armor the group of women around her had donned, yet the warriors listened attentively to what she was saying with the sort of reverence held for authority figures. After thanking her and giving some parting words, they took their leave and made their way to the gradually shortening line for the Shadowmoon portal.

The white-haired authority straightened her dress out, waiting by the open flap casually as she decided whether to remain outside or retire to the interior of the tent. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed two more armored women who had been a part of the group approaching her, though she didn't turn to them just yet. She could tell that one of them wore a pair of those glowing diurnal goggles the gnomes had developed while the other, trailing behind the first a bit, was unusually tall. Once she was sure they were heading for her, the white-haired woman folded her hands in front of her and turned to them politely in an attempt to help them feel welcome.

The shorter (relatively speaking) of the two grinned wide, already showing her young (relatively speaking) age. The taller one was quite different from the others, shielding her eyes from the sun with one hand but otherwise as focused and unemotional as the woman in the green dress herself.

"Greetings, Priestess," the shorter of the two – still as tall as the woman in the green dress – began in Darnassian. "Thank you so much for coming out here."

She nodded congenially, looking down and then back toward the green lenses of the goggles. "The pleasure was all mine. I'm so proud to see the contributions of our young people." She waited for a moment before asking one of the most common questions the Kaldorei would begin with when meeting each other, especially from someone with higher authority toward their youngers.

"How old are you?"

The goggle-wearing elf let out a quiet yet hearty laugh at the question. She didn't want to answer, but to dodge an elder's question would have been too improprietous even for her. "I will be one-thousand and thirty-three years old in a few months."

They both smiled knowingly when the exact age was given, and the younger elf kept her hands at her sides in anticipation of what was coming. The older elf broke her blank expression and visibly warmed up, reaching forward and – in an act that would normally be a violation of space among their people – removed the youngling's goggles.

"Geldor never told me he had a daughter," the retired priestess of the moon joked as she allowed the youngling's goggles to hang around her neck.

Unable to hide her age any longer, the youngling accepted her goggles back and laughed out loud like the outlanders tended to do. "Niece. Is it that obvious?"

"So you're Irien, then," the priestess replied jovially. Not wanting anybody to feel left out, she peered at the larger, obviously more mature elf behind Irien and beckoned for her to come.

The tall, armored elf warrior complied, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Irien with a polite but subdued smile similar to that of the priestess. The priestess inspected the warrior curiously; the warrior inspected the priestess cautiously, and didn't appear to be at ease.

"We love your books, Priestess Ralo'shan," Irien gushed as she broke the uncomfortable visual exchange. "And the part of the talk today where you related the change from independence to interdepence and how that comes into play during long-term campaigns…I mean, it seemed so clear the way you explained it but I never would have thought of it on my own."

"I am honored to know that you've found some of it useful," Ralo'shan replied. Irien's lips parted in a surprised smile as she realized that the priestess said _she_ was the one who felt honored, the youngling enraptured by an authority figure she obviously looked up to.

Displaying a nature which was considered boisterous by their standards, she changed to a different topic. "Sonja is pregnant!"

Ralo'shan grinned and snorted in an uncharacteristically animated way. "Oh, are you in contact with her?"

Despite having just met for the first time, Irien began opening up as though she were even less than three-hundred years old. "We just put a down payment on a duplex in Ratchet," she beamed while placing a hand on the taller elf's forearm. "It isn't finished yet but Sonja and Erikur are keeping an eye on the construction for us. We were able to bid through our employer with the understanding that we help protect the service workers on Draenor."

Ralo'shan's bright, burning silver eyes were searching for two dim lights coming from under the taller elf's half-helmet, noting the style of armor associated with the old huntress lodges prior to their people's membership in the Alliance. Turning back to Irien, she continued to make small talk despite already knowing why the two had come to see her.

"Your uncle mentioned something about you being transferred from security on the cargo ships to protecting postal roads," the priestess said in that soft, soothing voice that sounded more suited to singing hymns than speaking normally. "Your efforts on Draenor will allow the good people of our planet and theirs to communicate freely. It is through communication that we may come to know and connect with the ones we care about."

What was small talk to pass the time to the priestess sounded like some serious philosophy to the night elf sharpshooter, whose jaw dropped briefly. Snapping out of her stupor, she shifted the hunting rifle strapped to her back and fidgeted as she glanced to her unknowing companion to her right. "I don't want to steal too much of your time, my priestess, but my friend Cici here needs to talk to you inside."

Cecilia's eyes grew wide with shock as though she had been betrayed. She turned down in confusion to the spot where Irien had just been standing, her long eyebrows arched. "What?"

Before she could yank the bouncing youngling back over to them, Ralo'shan had already stepped forward and, breaking the normal rules of propriety for the Kaldorei, was holding Cecilia's hand. Normally it would have been a violation of personal space, but given the counseling role the Sisterhood of Elune held it would have been a far more serious violation for Cecilia to pull away.

Ralo'shan gave her a knowing look and without another word, turned and guided the former sentinel into the tent, closing the flap behind them. The only source of light was a small sliver of sun peeking out from under one of the folds of the canvas at the ground, and the near total darkness was much easier on both of them.

The tent had no chairs; the carpet was merely covered with a series of large, soft cushions matching the same geometric pattern of the carpet. One of the cushions was against the back wall of the tent and was larger than the others, a mostly-finished glass of water on the floor next to it. Ralo'shan tugged Cecilia over to two equally sized cushions instead, sitting down on her knees with her shins underneath her. The former sentinel was visibly awkward now.

"Please," Ralo'shan stated dryly as she patted the cushion next to her. With much hesitation, Cecilia slowly knelt down, her back and shoulders remaining tense as she sat with her hands on her knees. The expression of recognition and familiarity on the priestess' face terrified her.

The priestess reached up and removed the warrior's helmet without asking permission, behaving with a familiarity that she knew might make the larger woman even more uncomfortable. She had a purpose, however, and placed her hand on Cecilia's forehead – again without asking or warning. Her hands glowed with a whitish-blue light similar to that of the moon at night, and the warrior did not react as the priestess probed directly into her thoughts and emotions.

Removing her hand, Ralo'shan sat silently with Cecilia for a long time as she waited for the larger elf to relax naturally, without the help of magic. Only after more than ten minutes of sitting in silence did she speak.

"Whatever it is, you need to say it out loud," Ralo'shan started. "No matter how stoic we thought we were during the Long Vigil, we are not so now. This is a new world, and we are a new people. We must deal with the trauma so many of us have experienced in the past ten years in a new way, or our fragility will rob us of whatever peace we can achieve in our miniscule amount of time left on this world."

Though her apprehension had decreased, Cecilia had difficulty controlling her heart rate. Ralo'shan responded by using her magic this time, blessing the similarly ancient elf with a glowing touch to the top of her head. It was only slight; the tense elf needed to recover from her self-inflicted torture with as little outside intervention as possible.

Cecilia shook her head. "Nobody will ever understand me," she whispered with the emotion already breaking through in her voice. "Not unless they lived it."

Both of them being from the most ancient beings on Azeroth - Ralo'shan from the second generation of night elves and Cecilia from the third - there was much that they understood about each other without speaking. Given time to reflect and become comfortable without interruption, their kind could open up among themselves easily within a high-context, low-word count dialogue.

"Nobody is beyond forgiveness, my sister," the priestess whispered back with a hope and friendliness that was undaunted by the warrior's destitution. "Not if their remorse is sincere." Ralo'shan reached forward and pulled one of Cecilia's resisting hands toward her. It was feminine but firm, and slightly trembling from numerous yet recent regrets. The tattoos stopped at the wrist, revealing no callouses or scars; only the shakes, from two sources now.

Ralo'shan's face was that of pure sincerity as she looked upon Cecilia comfortably. "Will you let me help you?"

Confused at first, Cecilia glanced around the room. They were alone, and it was unlikely anyone else would enter. If there was any place she would be able to lower her wall, it would be here. "Yes," was all she could reply with.

Inspecting her palms, the priestess took her time, avoiding direct touch. She didn't appear to be doing some sort of a fortune telling, thankfully. But she was certainly looking for something.

"What do you see?" Ralo'shan asked.

Cecilia looked down at her own upturned palm and wished she hadn't. She hated looking at that hand - and hand that literally ended dozens of innocent lives, and figuratively ripped apart the lives of friends and loved ones. "I see blood," she said in a voice barely above a whisper.

Tracing the lines in the warrior's hand with her thumb, Ralo'shan pressed more and more. "I see tears. Tears that washed away the blood with remorse."

"Weeping is for those who have been wronged," Cecilia retorted weakly. "But I have only done wrong with impunity. Every day I live is an injustice to those I took the gift of life from." Her breathing became erratic as the words spilled from her lips for the first time since she'd left Kalimdor. Her body shook lightly as she tried to hold back, the thoughts in her head racing too quickly.

"That isn't true. Living allows us to repent. Repenting allows us to make amends. Those amends are gifts the fallen can still pass on through you. Live every day of your life with the goal of granting that favor to those you say you've hurt. Let their pain drive you to do good work in their name. _That_ is the road to peace; not eternal blame."

In all her twelve thousand years of life, Cecilia had only wept three times. She wept when the Sundering ripped apart Kalimdor along with her people's early civilization on the banks of the Well of Eternity. She wept at the very early beginning of the Long Vigil and the Emerald Dream, when her male relatives and neighbors left their womenfolk to fend for themselves and they were faced with the reality of shifting from a patriarchal aristocrat society to a matriarchal warrior society without any transition period or support. And she wept just eight years ago upon a pregnant Unelia's return to their grove after a year of exile in the wilds - an exile which Cecilia herself, now regretfully, had helped to impose - due to Unelia's relationship with the human she was now married to. Those three times, and nothing more.

Cecilia was stoic. She was cold. She was not a crier. Weeping was something she had believed was only for the most dire of circumstances. Yet now, satisfying an urge her heart could no longer deny, her tear ducts burned as moist drops fell for only the fourth time in her entire life. The physical pressure on her eyes caused her to feel dizzy.

"I…I can't…" the crestfallen warrior croaked as she tried to clear her throat. "I can't believe that statement. I can't deserve peace."

The conversation skipped a beat as Cecilia pulled her hand away and put it back on her knee. The priestess merely examined her, and the suspense was tearing down walls she had constructed so carefully.

"Isurith."

Ralo'shan's voice was so gentle, yet the name she uttered was so abhorrent to Cecilia's ears that she broke the social mores of her people and refused to make eye contact with a sincere counselor.

"I have not seen you in so many thousands of years," the priestess whispered as she tried to pull the stiff-bodied warrior into a hug. "Whatever happened to you in the past decade, I will not ask. I will not pretend I could understand if you insist I could not. And your identity will never, ever be revealed to anyone, not even the rapidly approaching day I pass on to the next world."

Exhaling with a deep cry, Cecilia kept her hands on her knees but leaned forward into Ralo'shan's arms. They paused again as the warrior choked out deep sobs and soaked the shoulder of the priestess' dress with salty tears; two people their age, who had seen so much, were never in a hurry about anything, even when they both knew that they probably had less than a century left before dying natural deaths. Cecilia was granted a perfect silence as she released the pain had built up ever since she had left Astranaar and ventured out into the brave new world.

"But you have to promise me something," the priestess continued after a few minutes, laboriously punctuating every whispered word. "Promise me that you will not give up on redeeming yourself. You survived for so long, and I sense the unfathomable good in you even if you numb yourself to it. The only thing holding you back from the first step is that you desire so much to believe you're evil. I don't know what caused that desire and I won't ask. But if you remember me, then you remember that I can see into your heart; and what I see is a person who is fighting to convince herself that she is beyond atonement despite her heart longing for it so much."

The warrior pulled back, her breathing somewhat slowed down. Ralo'shan kept her grip on those armored shoulders, not finished quite yet. "Promise me."

Cecilia looked up and nodded, inhaling and exhaling through her mouth as her face became still. The priestess released her grip and settled back onto her own cushion as offered a tissue from a small box that had been sitting behind her.

"You'll go to Draenor now," she said a bit louder with a smile, "and you will finish up this contract and have a house waiting for you in Kalimdor. You're much better off than you may have thought."

Cecilia finished wiping her eyes and picked up her helmet without saying a word. As the two sat back and reminisced over the old times for half an hour or so, she was finally able to return Ralo'shan's gaze without any self-consciousness visible in her faded, barely shining eyes. They shared a low, good-hearted laugh before leaving, reminding them both vaguely of a joke they may have shared long ago before the Sundering that was now lost in time.

* * *

Irien was still waiting for them outside, throwing rocks against other rocks and then looking for more rocks in between their tent and the next. The Priestess of the Moon cleared her throat, announcing the end of the surprise session that she and the young sharpshooter had been planning for the past week.

Irien turned and to her surprise, her companion of several years who had always appeared so emotionless had a subtle yet sincere smile on her lips, her back straightened up proudly yet comfortably without tension.

"You two take care of yourselves on the other side," Ralo'shan said as Cecilia moved to stand next to her shorter companion. "I expect you to write about all your adventures once you get situated there. I trust you'll have mail running from Azeroth to this planet and back in no time."

"How can we reach you?" Cecilia asked in a voice that was slightly firmer and more confident than before.

Ralo'shan folded her hands in front of herself again. "I have another speaking engagement in Stormwind next week, but after that I was considering a stay in Teldrassil. I never took the time to enjoy our new territory outside of Darnassus." She remained exactly where she was, looking at Irien expectantly.

The youngling shifted her rifle again, grinning gaudily in a way that would have been inappropriate had anyone else seen her giving such a look to a priestess. "We left both of our lawn chairs on that far south end of the beach," she said in a normal speaking voice despite wanting to burst out in dance upon delivering the news. "He's waiting."

"Well, oh, um, of course," Ralo'shan said with a slightly faster-than-usual speed (relatively speaking) as she adjusted her long, silver braid to loop aesthetically around both shoulders. "I will keep that in mind." Even at her age, it was difficult to suppress her joy upon receiving the information.

They watched her as she took her leave, slowly weaving in and out of the tents and politely greeting other well-wishers as that evergreen dress gradually dropped out of view on its way to the far south. Cecilia continued looking after what was once an old acquaintance that had now become a dear friend when she felt a slap to her back.

"Good to see the real you out of her shell," Irien teased.

"Let's find Vegnus," Cecilia stated as she failed in her attempt to look angry at the backslap. "We have mail deliverers to protect."


	21. Risk It

**A/N: violence toward the end.**

There was a slight breeze flowing through west Gorgrond that night and the canopy around the clearing rustled as the leaves brushed up against one another. It felt cool in the otherwise humid climate, marking the windiest day the group had faced yet in the region.

Cecilia rested her chin on top of her knees, which she had pulled right up against her chest. She stared into the surface of the wellspring, having not said a word for a long time after she finished the very last chapter of her story. She wasn't tense like when she had spoken about Theramore, but she seemed very down.

As much as he had been fascinated by her story and relieved to see that someone else had recovered from both the horror of Warsong Gulch and having hit rock bottom afterward, he still felt the guilt. It wasn't like the guilt he felt for the prisoners he had tortured; this was entirely different in a way he couldn't explain. His natural inclination would have been to blame himself for her dampened mood, but he knew she wouldn't blame him this time.

"Ya feelin' down cause ya ain't as far along in findin' that inner peace as ya led me ta believe tha first night," he whispered as he leaned his head closer.

She nodded, still staring at the ripples in the water as the wind moved across the surface. "Yes."

"But it's silly," he said, refusing to patronize her. "Cause ya know I'm someone ya ain't gotta feel embarrassed in front of for anythin'."

"Yes."

"And…" He felt silly himself with the realization that he hadn't waited before opening his mouth. "…and me sayin' that won't stop ya from feelin' embarrassed."

She elbowed him in the side, flashing a half-smile his way. "And if you say sorry, I'm going to hit you a second time, too."

"Thank ya," he chuckled, "for tellin' me. But not for ya elbow."

They both turned to the sky now, debating whether or not any of the constellations they spied were also visible on Azeroth. Given that Cecilia spent several millennia memorizing every single constellation every single night, the debate was _slightly_ one-sided. Khujand didn't mind losing most of the time – though not at golfing with severed heads – and she was a gracious winner as long as he took everything in a stride. It seemed to help, as far as he could tell, that he enjoyed listening to her so much; despite being so reserved in front of the others, she was still talkative when they were alone, even after having exhausted so many of her stories from the past.

There was still something else burning in the back of his mind, and she felt it before he even asked. It was amazing how she rarely seemed to tire from it all.

"Ask," she laughed as she finally placed her hands on the sand behind her and leaned back.

He crossed his legs in front of him, straightening up his back. "I didn't say anythin'."

She smirked evilly like he had seen Irien do that day. "My elbow wants you to ask."

"Immortality."

She turned all the way over to him now, giving him a completely puzzled look. "I told you throughout my stories, when I was musing on my own naiveté about the outside world and how all those millennia hadn't prepared me."

Khujand stared down into his lap before turning to face her as well. "But ya didn't tell me about it endin'," he said as he swiveled. "How did it feel ta lose it? Ya spent so long livin' under tha assumption that ya would never die, then after one battle, tha Battle of Mount Hyjal where both ya and me served, it's like…nope. Now ya gonna die one day. Party's over."

Cecilia peered at him with an arched brow before relaxing into an almost sympathetic smile. "I guess that it's easy for me to reconcile the contradictions because I've lived them, but since you only know one side - morality - there's a lack of context." She curled up and crossed her legs in front of her as well, popping the joints in her ankles as she did so. "I loved immortality when we had it because I was ignorant. I don't regret having been ignorant at that time, just as I don't even regret the awful things I went through at Theramore and Booty Bay. But I love morality, too. I love it. I embrace it. And I wouldn't ever want to go back to the way things were."

Khujand scratched the back of his neck as he spoke. "Ya must think I'm dense ta not get it-"

"Never!" she said with a reassuring smile while slapping his wrist. "We understand the world through our own subjective experiences. Neither you nor I are dense if we don't 'get' something, we're just being ourselves with our own backgrounds."

"Ah...that's a very kind thing ta say," he muttered as he looked down, his ever-present anxiety making itself known as he gradually tried to build toward the topic of her present. "But ya said tha Long Vigil was borin', and that ya were a drone without individuality."

"One-hundred percent."

"And that ya feel like ya womenfolk were livin' in a dream like tha menfolk, cause ya didn't know things like avarice, poverty, internal conflict, dishonesty and so forth."

"We were drones, like I said. Hollow. We did the same things every week, had the same conversations, the same opinions even. We were nothing because we felt nothing. We just ate when we were hungry and slept when we were tired." She had already explained this to him throughout her stories, but the way she leaned close to him and would punctuate the occasional point with her hands indicated what Khujand assumed was her enthusiasm for a curious ear.

His fascination with the way she spoke and the sheer amount of history she had with her momentarily distracted him from the goal he was dancing around. "And ya wouldn't want, for example, ta live in this 'brave new world' plus have immortality at tha same time?"

"No, absolutely not," she said with a confident wave of one hand. "If we had immortality, a few of us would have ventured out but the rest of us wouldn't have been _able_ to change, to feel, to fall in love with life again like we were before the Sundering." She breathed a long, drawn out sigh toward the sky before looking back to him, appearing entirely comfortable with his red eyes locked onto her silvers. "I don't remember the Long Vigil well because everything, every day blends together in my memory like it didn't matter. But I remember the time before immortality well even though it was so long ago. I remember it because we saw people grow old and die on the banks of the Well of Eternity. We were mortal and so we were normal. Immortality is _not_ normal."

Khujand stroked his upper lip with one finger. "We need death ta love life," he murmured without realizing the button he had just pushed.

Cecilia's eyes grew wide and she suddenly jerked up, speaking excitedly like Irien would. "Yes! By the night, yes! That's exactly it!" She placed her hands back in the sand to readjust her sitting position speedily despite not having any apparent need to do so. Khujand's heart jumped again, and he was hypnotized by her sudden engagement, a grin on his face that he knew must have looked dumb.

"I can't stand it," she continued hurriedly as though she were arguing with someone, "if I hear other Kaldorei lamenting over the loss of immortality, the loss of stupid isolation, the loss of the Long Vigil when we did the same things over and over all the time. The Scourge lead more fulfilling 'lives.' It was beautiful during its time...so beautiful. Even if it was boring, we thought we were content. Not happy because that's too strong an emotion, but content. But to go back again? Even our first civilization before the Sundering, before Queen Azshara became corrupted; I was so happy, my parents and sister and I were a happy family, but I wouldn't go back. Its time is passed and we must learn how to really value the dwindling days we have on this world."

She breathed deeply and puffed her chest up in a comedic, exaggerated fashion as they both laughed and he could have sworn her eyes twinkled at him. "We could never love life if we weren't able to lose it. That's why I'm not even sad that I will die soon."

His heart stopped after having beaten so quickly, and for a split second he was worried that he was experiencing some sort of medical issue. Khujand was literally paralyzed until he felt a squeeze on his hand. Even the sound of that husky voice laughing couldn't cheer him up.

"Khujand, you're the silly one now," she chortled as she tried to pinch his cheek. "You should see the look on your face!"

"I ain't got a look."

"You look more upset than me when I first considered my own death."

"No I don't."

"That's so sweet, to be concerned over my statement."

"Only a little."

"You and Irien are the only ones to react that way."

"I don't...react! Cause I...um...proact! Ya projectin' onta me!"

As she pulled her hand away and leaned far over to her side with laughter, he realized that the squeeze had been from her fingers wrapped in his palm. He could feel the muscles in his face tense as he frowned like a cantankerous child and pretended to examine her moon glaive lying in the sand.

Cecilia straightened up as she finished laughing, her mood far better than it had been after initially finishing her story. Despite not having a reason to, she scooted so close to him that her knees were almost touching his. The same alarm bells from that first night, when she had stalked him and watched him dancing, were back.

"Would you like me to qualify that statement?" she asked with her chin resting on the top of her hand.

"As ya like," he huffed, trying so hard to contain his obvious distraught feeling.

"Alright. Look, 'soon' to me is different than for you. You know how when those of you with shorter lifespans are about to die, many of you feel it a day or so before? Or a week? You don't have proof, but you know with certainty that it's coming?"

Without realizing what he was saying, Khujand opened up about his life before Warsong Gulch, picking at a scab he didn't remember he had. "My daddy knew it was comin' three days before his heart failed him," he said as he watched the surface of the pool of water ripple. "He predicted it down to tha exact time of tha third day when it came." He shut his eyes once he realized he had blurted out something so unrelated to the experiences with war crimes and physical and mental prisons they had been sharing. That hadn't been their goal in trying to console one another; it had no relation to either their shared guilt or their paths to recovery. He felt so childish to mention something so unrelated, something which must be so completely irrelevant to her life.

Yet when he opened his eyes after hearing no response, he saw that she was upset too. She frowned sympathetically in a way that made his comment feel less unwanted. She shook her head quickly as though she hadn't realized she had been staring again.

"I'm...I'm very sorry to hear that, Khujand," she murmured, her eyes comforting him in a way that made him feeling even more embarrassed for burdening her with a topic that couldn't be of any importance to her. The sound of her saying his name didn't quite cheer him up this time, but the fact that she hadn't simply brushed it aside without caring was heartwarming.

"Not tonight, please. I'm sorry for mentionin' it."

She looked at him with the same expression for a moment, but obliged his fragility and pretended it hadn't happened, much to his relief. "Well...so you know how that happens. Sometimes, people feel it coming. Well, I feel it coming too, but I feel it with a lot more warning because a day for you is more like a century for me. And I'm sure now that I might have even less than a century left, maybe only half a century, but I know it's coming. I'm dying, by the standards of night elves. I know you saw it in my eyes the first night - the effects of my past addiction." She pointed to the dim, weak glow her eyes cast on her cheeks.

"Ta me, ya eyes are still tha most beautiful things I've ever seen," he blurted out in a tone that was far too soft. He froze upon realization of what he had just done.

You God damn moron, he berated himself inside. Why on Azeroth would you _ever_ say that out loud; you screwed up twice already. Right at the moment that he felt the heat rising in his face, he saw Cecilia's cheeks begin to flush as well and they both laughed uncomfortably while looking at their own hands.

"That's a very kind thing to say," she said as shyly as he had said it earlier in the conversation. He was confused by her reaction; she had no apprehension about dancing so closely to him that first night. There was no reason for her to blush like him over the compliment, no matter how idiotic and probably unwelcome he thought it was.

He cleared his throat, fighting against another awkward silence. "Uh, and ya were sayin' that ya feel it comin' soon but not how non-elves understand soon?"

"Yes, right," she replied, her voice still slightly shaky. Slowly, her cheeks began to return to their normal color.

"Um, I know my lifestyle is catching up with me. For all our longevity, elven biology isn't designed to deal with the stuff I was hooked on. I'm not young, either - I was already two millennia old when immortality first started and that's beyond an average elven lifespan. Shalasyr, the sister-in-law of Lady Maiev, has already died of natural causes and she was slightly younger than me. I heard that Lamynia, the priestess who presided over our ancestral grove, recently died of old age as well. Irien has mentioned how Tyrande now has stress lines on her face, and how her husband Furion now has aches and pains in his bones like an older man of any other race. It isn't just me; all night elves born before the Sundering had already lived longer than normal elves should. Those born during immortality like Irien still have centuries ahead of them, but for those of us who saw the first Well of Eternity…Shandris…Jarod…Ralo'shan…me…I doubt most of us will see even the next half-century. A whole century from now, all of us will be dead and gone, I'm absolutely certain."

Though there was a hint of spite in Cecilia's voice at the mention of Tyrande's name - and a great reverence for Maeiv's - her voice still became weak at the end of her speech, and she winced as though she hadn't wanted Khujand to hear it. He obliged her fragility this time as it dawned on him that she was trying more to console herself with her words than him.

"I know for sure that _ninety-nine percent_ of my lifespan has already passed, Khujand; ninety-nine percent. And I was content for most of it, but I wasn't truly _happy_. I was only happy before the Sundering and in the past two, almost three years.

"We believe in fate, you and I. And if we're sincere in that belief, then you know I don't regret the way it's turned out. I remember the good times and I hope for more in whatever little time I have left. And it's because I know that my time is limited that I value the handful of people and however much peace I've been granted in my life. I know it, and I accept it."

She paused and broke eye contact with him; she seemed to project a bit more false confidence this way, but he thought she must have known that her fake, unsure demeanor was more telling than her words. "I'm ready," she said unconvincingly to the sky.

Cecilia watched the leaves of the canopy rustle in the breeze as Khujand had done before, looking lost. For a split second, she had that wistful, melancholy look on her face come and go again, and it took everything he had, every ounce of willpower not to reach out and hug her tight and never let go. Unless she initiated it, his fear of offending her was too great.

With that voice of hers that reminded him of wind chimes, and a slightest of slight movement of her lips, she murmured. He knew for sure that she didn't realize he heard it, and suspected that she may not have even realized she was speaking out loud as he often did, but he knew he heard it.

"Where did my time go…"

So many times in those past four days, he had felt her probe right into his brain. He couldn't explain or prove it, but he knew with absolute certainty that she had. Yet he hadn't tried to do that himself; he didn't resent her doing it, but he felt he had no right himself. His curiosity was beyond restraint, now, and he examined her as she looked up toward that perfect night sky, the constellations and gaseous forms of the Twisting Nether shining down onto that face which he never grew tired of marvelling at.

And the more he tried to peer into those two silver windows, the more he felt like she _wasn't_ ready to pass on from this life, like she _wasn't_ as close to peace as she claimed, like she _wasn't_ as calm about her dwindling time until death as she claimed she was. It killed him inside to understand that; he felt so strongly that she deserved that happiness and that it was unfair that of all people, she was still searching after so long.

The emotion was too intense and Khujand had to force himself to blink the feeling away and forced himself to open up the topic that was lingering at the back of his mind.

"So ya chose Ratchet as ya new home base?" he asked curiosuly, remembering the point he wanted to push toward. "Ya content ta live ya life there?"

Her eyes softened as she looked back, and his hopes increased as that warm smile returned to her.

"I am, actually," she started with her head slightly turned to the side as she looked at him. She seemed to appreciate the lighter subject. "Irien is an irreplaceable if unpredictable friend, and we have support and a whole community there. The presence of neutral organizations and goblin shipping also means that finding work on dry land shouldn't be difficult. And it's far, far more tame than Booty Bay. The whole environment is less 'skeevy,' as Irien says."

"I'm happy for ya, Cici," he said with a similar soft tone to before but without the regret for speaking so intimately. "It sounds like ya are on ya way ta recoverin' and havin' control of ya own life."

She nodded with a smile, but then began to stare him down with concern. It was that sort of peering, examining gaze that made him feel as though she knew what he was thinking before even he did. What was she seeing?

"I'm worried about you, though," she said with a sincerity that was touching. "I wouldn't have said that before because it wasn't my place and I didn't know if it would scare you, but I feel like I can say that now. You worry about where you'll go after the campaign is over and I wish I could tell you that you'll be fine, but you need to start planning before it's too late."

At that moment, Khujand somehow fought back every last particle of his own personality's being, and found a sort of gumption that was completely out of character. He was on the cusp of what he had been building toward now. He hadn't thought it would feel so easy to start.

"I ain't _too_ worried," he said as nonchalantly as possible. "I've been thinkin' that I'll be headin' ta tha Barrens. Ratchet, specifically."

Cecilia was taken aback, though a curious look remained on her face. "Really? Ratchet?"

"Yeah. Ratchet."

Her mouth hung open ever so slightly, a small portion of her teeth visible as she sized him up and seemed, for the first time, to _not_ know what he was feeling. "Why Ratchet?"

"Two reasons," he answered coyly without elaborating. She waited for him to finish but was only met with silence.

"Tell me." Her voice was cautious. His heart rate increased.

"Well, it's a port city. If I ever get tha itch ta visit somewhere else, I can hop on a boat. If I'm outta work, it's a place where recruiters congregate. If I get tired of tha people I meet, I can meet new people. If I wanna see desert, it's there in tha Barrens. If I wanna see grasslands, it's there. If I wanna see greenery and jungle, the oases are there. It's a gorgeous, diverse area that has access to tha world. And I wouldn't wanna live permanently in any place other than Kalimdor."

She was leaning in closer now, listening closely to what he was saying. He didn't know why she was so interested considering that his plans bore no relation to what had brought them together in the first place, but it gave a boost to his normally low self-esteem to have her listening like that. Sharing their stories and experiences was different; there was a tangible benefit in it for her, and his paranoia was always in the back of his head, doing its best to spoil any positive person-to-person interactions he had. But now, she was listening to what he had to say about life in the present. He could honestly say that it made him feel _happy_.

"And the second reason?" she asked with a slight tint to her cheeks and an irritated, almost-but-not-quite nervous waver in her voice. For the first time, she almost appeared visibly flustered.

There was no way to control his heart rate, even with the confidence boost. This is what he had been building up to. He planted his right fist into the sand and rotated his body away from her slightly, worried that facing her directly would be overwhelming.

"There's somebody I'd like ta see who will move there very soon."

He laid his elbow on his knee and his chin on his fist, unable to make eye contact but able to speak with a calm, soft voice. He couldn't see her to know her facial expression but could tell that she was still facing him.

"Tell me about her." Her true reaction was hidden behind her curt tone.

"How do ya know it's a she?"

"Just tell me." Her entire demeanor was very guarded, like when she was in front of the others. But there was no turning back now; he would die if he didn't get it off his chest, whether he embarrassed himself beyond belief or not.

"There's somebody there. Somebody very special. Somebody who has been through so much hardship, and I don't mean 'oh, I was unemployed for a few months.' I mean real, downright rotten treatment from the world. She made a lotta mistakes and did a lotta wrong things herself; she wasn't an angel. But she hates the bad stuff she did, and that's more important. She knows tha bad she did cause she _ain't_ bad herself; if she were, she wouldn't recognize what she did was wrong. She wouldn't beat herself up over it, she wouldn't hate herself.

"But she's wrong, ta hate herself. What she did was evil but she ain't evil, if she could only see the good that tha people in her life see in her. She is an example of someone who repented from her sins completely and didn't allow the evil, the downright ugliness of tha world ta corrupt her, didn't allow tha tragedy and trauma she suffered afterward ta destroy her. She fell in tha dirt and came out clean, if she could only realize that.

"She has so much ta share and give tha world, even if she doesn't think so. Tha people in her life love her so much and deep down, I know she wants ta love herself as well, and ta forgive herself. And she deserves that. She is thoughtful, kind, intelligent and strong, all without bein' conceited. She is...tha greatest person I have ever met, and I feel inspired whenever I'm around her."

Khujand closed his eyes for a moment as he faced toward the trees, slowly breathing in and holding one breath for a few seconds before letting it out. For the first time, he executed Kuma's breathing exercise correctly and it lowered his heart rate from the first try, if only slightly. His fingers and toes tingled with numbness as he realized that, despite his closed off, socially inept self, he had somehow managed to honestly say how he felt. Now, all he could think of was his curiosity at how she felt to have heard it.

Turning to her with a slight movement of his head, he saw that she had angled herself in the same direction he was facing while he was talking. Most of her face was still visible, as was the despondent frown she now wore. Her brow was furrowed with disappointment, and her refusal to look at him informed him of his foolishness before she even spoke.

"Khujand..." she started in a nervous tone barely above a whisper. "Look...I..." She trailed off as she pinched the bridge of her nose.

Stop, he thought. Stop. Stop. I'm sorry for bringing it up, sorry for projecting all my idealistic idiocy on you. Just stop. Please stop. It was my stupid fault for saying it. Just forget it happened like before. Pretend I never said all that.

Cecilia looked down toward her lap, rubbing the back of her neck like he had earlier. She wasn't blushing, her breathing was normal; there were no signs of a real reaction other than discomfort and perhaps even mild resentment. She turned her halfway toward him while continuing to look off in a different direction. "Why are you telling me this _now_," she said flatly without even raising her tone at the end like a real question.

His hopes dashed as quickly as they had been stupidly raised, Khujand looked off in the same direction, forcing a pathetically fake laugh and smarmy smirk on his face.

"Bah, I dunno…just words with no meanin', I guess. Just…yeah, nothin', right? Forget I said it. I'm ramblin' now. Don't pay no mind ta anythin' I'm sayin'."

Cecilia held absolutely still, and he recovered just enough to shove his moronic heart from his throat back down where it belonged. With another unconvincingly fake laugh at himself, he turned away pretending to scratch an itch on his temple as he blinked the tears away and cursed his blasted sensitivity. Her answer had been clear.

Those few moments they sat in deafening silence were mercifully broken by the sound of a whistle being carried from the camp to the clearing. Both of their ears pricked up, and through what was assuredly a miracle from whatever had created him, he forgot the selfish ache in his chest.

"Irien's distress signal," Cecilia said while reaching over and already donning her weapons. "Something is wrong."

Without a word or a second more of moping, Khujand was up and off, following right behind her as they rushed back toward the campsite, the sounds of dozens of growls and screeches already filling them with dread. He could sulk later; he had to repress his feelings for now and somehow force his brain into combat mode.

Back on the main road, the two of them began running. With her tower shield on her left arm and his hands empty, he was able to match her pace as the light brown topped with dark green of the forest whizzed by them. She shadowmelded, becoming a nearly invisible outline of a person before his very eyes though he could still hear her feet hitting the ground next to him. Anushka's screaming pierced the air above the canopy and Khujand pulled out his fel glaive as he ran. He slowed down slightly, knowing that as the more heavily armored person Cecilia should be out front. Her transparent form moved ahead though he stayed on her right, not wanting to lose sight of the phantom and then tumble over her.

Before the rows of trees ever dispersed at the slope next to the ledge, they could already see Irien perched atop the sheer rock wall overlooking the camp. Her position was a series of flashes as she fired and reloaded her hunting rifle at _something below_ with a speed which he had previously though impossible. Any doubts he once held over her ability due to the ridiculous summersault she pulled off the first day were dispelled. She was a sight to behold, now, knelt down with the rifle's scope next to her calculating, unperturbed face.

He and Cecilia stopped briefly once they exited the main road and cleared the woods; how this had happened without them noticing was beyond them both. The corrupted podlings were all there, their sickly eyes glowing with a diseased orange hue as they clambered up the slope. There were at least thirty or forty of them, their soft, pedal-like bodies reaching no more than four feet high though their numbers were formidable. Vegnus has climbed up a tree – he seemed much better at climbing than defending himself – and was resigned to throwing stray branches down at the stubby creatures. They lurched forward much more slowly than Zorena had described, their movements jerky as though their minds were enslaved by a witch doctor's serum. At least another ten of them were scattered about on the ground near the ledge, corrupted orange juices flowing out of the bullet holes in their bodies. The talbuk was nowhere to be found.

The view of the camp itself was much more worrisome. Although Irien had managed to keep all but three of the podlings off the ledge, the possible source of their madness had already entered the camp. Yaromira knelt on the ground and was holding Anushka by the wrists, trying to calm her at the gaunt, commanding figure towered over the group. The spastic draenei was kicked her hooves into the ground and arching her back as she screamed in her native tongue, gripped by some sort of a seizure beyond her own control. Kiul was waving the clothes drying rack like a weapon at their interlocutor, attempting to hold it at bay, but the fear in his eyes made it more apparent that he was a common working man with no martial training.

As Cecilia charged forward into the mass of podlings nearest to the ledge itself, Khujand was able to spy what was confronting the three draenei. Standing tall, even taller than Khujand – perhaps ten feet in height – was a corrupt botani. Zorena had told them they were the defenders of the natural environment in Gorgrond and wouldn't bother him if he didn't bother them, but something was wrong. Through all the bullet holes Irien had ineffectively riddled through its bark skin, the same sickly orange glow seeped out, lighting the entire camp with its brightness. The cracks around its asymmetrically elongated joints swelled and pulsated as it stood before Kiul with a crooked, uneven gait, its head sagging down to the side. Whatever had infected the podlings and spread to the sick people near Beastwatch had obviously affected this forest person as well.

"Protect the civilians!" Cecilia shouted as she knocked over at least eight of the podlings with her shield. "I can handle these smaller ones!"

Khujand followed the seasoned soldier's orders, passing around the sea of rabid flower people as it washed over Cecilia. She knew how to handle herself better than he would, and he put the evening up until that point out of his mind as a dozen more podlings were upon her, leaping onto her back and swarming all over her arms as she spun and slashed half a dozen more in half with one swing of her glaive. More gunshots rang out as Irien picked off more of the podlings toward the end of the surge, thinning out their numbers.

Khujand realized that the botani was too close to the draenei for him to swing his double-bladed glaive safely; he couldn't risk hurting them. Eyeing the three podlings behind the botani instead, he flung the blade in their direction. Rotating in a circle as it flew in a straight line, it cut the three infected creatures in half. Unlike the triangular elven glaives such as Cecilia's, the trollish glaives such as Khujand's which were more like two-ended swords didn't return upon impact and his hands were empty as the corrupt botani turned to face him with its jerky, twitching movements.

He was already charging as he reached behind his back for his bone club, ready to meet the treeman's sagging head with his heavy, two-handed weapon. Just as the treeman leapt at him, the audible click of the chain bolted into the club's hilt struggling against the metal clip on his backstrap informed him that the piece which held it fastened in place was jammed. His entire diagonal leather strap jerked against his torso as his weapon refused to move, and it was pure luck that he was able to swing his forearm down and deflect the first scratch from the long, woody fingers with his metal bracer. The wooden body continued sailing into him even after the arm was batted out of the way, and the other hand clawed over Khujand's shoulder pauldron and scratched his right upper arm slightly.

The botani was taller but Khujand was heavier, and the jungle troll squeezed his arms around the treeman's waist despite its resisting him and spun, throwing it further away from the draenei toward the place where the ledge met level soil, right where Khujand himself had emerged from two and a half days ago. Despite its uneven and uncoordinated movement, the treeman landed on its feet safely if ungracefully, turning toward him again.

In a flash, he grabbed his combat knife and threw it at the sagging head, missing by at least two feet as his blade was lost in the darkness. The botani charged, its arms outstretched just a little too wide for its own good as the jungle troll experienced déjà vu from the wrestling matches back at the prison yard years ago.

"Ya wanna dance?!"

Khujand leapt forward to meet the treeman, wrapping his arms around its head and clasping his own hands together behind its neck. Ignoring the wooden claws digging into his shoulders, he sank his hips back and stepped even further behind with one foot, allowing his body weight to drag the treeman toward him. It wasn't until it finally picked up its sagging head that it noticed the troll's bent, padded knee sailing toward its midsection, the audible snap grabbing the attention of the whole camp despite the melee down the side of the slope.

"Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr..." the botani groaned with a voice even deeper than Khujand's, its unnatural sound grinding the air like the rumble of the geysers the night before.

The force of the blow knocked the treeman straight out of Khujand's wrestling hold as it stumbled back at least three yards and lost its balance. From its left shoulder down to its waist, a deep, diagonal crack opened up as the sickly orange glow seeped out like corrupted blood and dripped onto the wooden leg. Though still 'alive,' the treeman's knees gave out as it fell and caught itself on the ground with its hands, its torso pulsating and bloating as though something had ruptured inside of its body.

Khujand should have simply hexed the treeman; even if voodoo didn't work well on such creatures, he could have at least cursed it into a shrunken version of itself, but his usually small ego swelled. A feeling of brash, arrogant triumph overrode the pretend Shadow Hunter's common sense and even his deep-seated paranoia as he stomped over to the botani and grabbed the back of its neck, pulling it up to look at him without restraining its arms.

He raised his free arm in preparation to smash apart the wooden head with one of his massive hammer fists, but as it sat up on its knees, the glow in the botani's infected eyes was even brighter than the voodoo shining in Khujand's own and its entire jaw cracked open at an impossible angle before he could jump away.

"Gah!" he growled as the first trail of disgusting orange vomit streamed out, staining over Khujand's left pectoral, upper arm and ribs.

He stumbled far back and lost his footing as the fluid burned his skin with a pain even greater than the prison officer's bullwhip and ate away at his flesh. His skin was already smoldering by the time he hit the ground, a strange hiss from the smoke rising from his left side distracting him even from the continued shots fired from Irien's rifle.

Like a puppet being pulled on strings, the botani arched its back and seemed to rise with no effort from its legs, its upper body floating up on its own accord as its feet merely dragged across the ground. Its body began to burst as more of the liquid shot out of the crack Khujand had broken into its torso, spilling forth at him like a projectile. Just when he had begun to stand, the jungle troll fell back again, scooting backward to get out of the way of the acidic stream. His burned skin bubbled like foam as the botani blood ate away his flesh faster than it could regenerate, and the pain sent him into a stupor that prevented him from doing anything other than crawling away.

The glow was faint in the crack after the second stream, but a rumbling in the treeman's belly indicated that a third was on its way. Khujand scooted back even more, his unscathed shoulder hitting the face of the sheer rock wall. Panic gripped his very being as he realized that he had nowhere left to back up, and straining his muscles on the left side to brace himself stretched the burning skin in a way which filled him with even more dread. The jerking, corpselike botani arched way back, as though it were preparing for another round of projectile vomit.

But he wasn't afraid now. He slumped against the rock wall, a sense of calm overtaking him as he sank. Shining silver metal gleamed in the moonlight as the dumbstruck troll could only lie there and watch the unstoppable force soar at least fifteen feet in the air and hit the ground at breakneck speed.

_::THUD::_

A shockwave ripped through the ground, actually causing physical pain to Khujand's back and feet as it surged in a circular pattern from behind the now frozen, paralyzed botani. Rocks and pebbles flew up off the ground as though a small, localized earthquake had shaken the ledge. And then, all was silent.

The treeman stood there with its uneven legs splayed outward, its upper body leaned forward slightly as time stood still. Suddenly, with almost no transition, what was once a single forehead suddenly became two separate template apart over a single face. What was once a single face open up into a two-headed wood monster. Two shoulders moved apart as that intricate black-and-silver design took the place of dark brown oak, all connected to a single waistline. Two legs moved apart, a sickly orange liquid spilling onto the ground and dissipating into a gaseous form as it made contact with the rock ledge. The botani's entire body was split, the two halves of a broken body falling to the sides as two halves of a broken shield greeted the relieved, lightheaded troll instead.

She crouched before him where his foe had once stood, her right knee on the ground as her arm was held in front of her, almost striking a pose after she had cut clear through the monster with her glaive. Her left foot was planted firmly on the ground as he left arm bearing her shield was held out behind her for balance. As she met his gaze and rose, the moonlight shone on the living embodiment of power and grace. As she strode over toward her injured comrade, dark azure ponytail waving behind her in the wind, he was too much in awe to notice Vegnus guiding the talbuk back to camp as Irien and Kiul carried a now still yet traumatized Anushka in front of the campfire, Yaromira already rushing over with a blanket as she stepped over the dead bodies of the flower people littering the ground everywhere.

"You should be more cautious, soldier," that breathy, quiet voice said without a hint of condescension as a single hand covered with plate armor over the top extended to him magnanimously.

Khujand reached up and accepted her right hand in his; her steady, strong, unshaking hand. The trembling which had been more psychological than physiological was gone as long fingers, feminine yet firm, wrapped around his.

The harrowing assault on their camp had passed and the entire group safe, their last day and night in west Gorgrond almost over. And as the most amazing being he had ever set his eyes upon led him back to the campfire to tend to his burns, Khujand could only marvel at how stupid he was, how foolish he could have been to imagine there being something more beyond four nights.


	22. The Long Trek

Yaromira, Kiul, Anushka and Vegnus as well as the talbuk had somehow managed to sleep for another four hours despite the stress and lingering fear from the assault on their camp the night before. Irien had insisted on staying up as well, not wanting their last night in the wilds to be their last on Azeroth…er, Draenor. With a spot cleared up inside the women's tent, Yaromira had left Kiul on his own for the rest of the night to sleep next to Anushka, who hadn't spoken since her episode during the podling attack. It was a cause for concern, but the entire group was so tired that to have asked about her problem would have felt laborious and intrusive.

While Irien sat cross legged at her vantage point on the rock wall, Cecilia kneeled for the remaining hours at the far edge of the camp, using her night vision to peer out over the valley below. Neither of them spoke to each other for the remainder of the watch, and both left Khujand to his spot where the ledge met the soil and grass – right where he had initially approached them from almost three days ago. He had taken the time to cast his cleanse spell on the burn wounds from the altercation with the botani, but had chosen to wait until morning before applying any ointment. His regeneration was strong, and he preferred to let the wound air out for a while.

With the rising sun, Irien donned her day vision goggles as she sat with a completely peaceful look on her face, watching the light spill over the green valley dotted by blue ponds and tall patches of grass below. Cecilia remained kneeling, not even moving her hand to shield her eyes from the light of day as though she were sleeping while in that position.

Khujand, hanging off to the side, was thankful for the burn marks he had received across his left arm, shoulder and chest. The seething pain that lingered in his flesh took his mind off of what had happened just before the assault and allowed his wounded psyche to focus on his wounded body instead. Though his mind occasionally wandered into fits of self-loathing as was his nature, it stung him more than usual this time. It shouldn't have come as a surprise; part of all the bonding and sharing of past crimes committed during the past few nights was spurned on specifically _because_ he and Cecilia were two people naturally given to self-loathing. They may have tried to help each other move on from that, but the feeling was still familiar. So why, then, was it so intense now – after a mere social blunder with someone he had only spent four days with?

The sound of the others waking and exiting from their tents was music to his ears. He rose and stretched, feeling the sun's rays on his back before he walked over to the camp without waiting to be called. Kiul took time inspecting Khujand's wounds, and he and Yaromira did their best to apply some healing salve to the squirming troll. It felt surprisingly cool and soothing and the draenei couple were amazed at how far along his recovery had already come in only four hours. It would still need to be cleansed again later, but for now it felt fine.

Much to everyone's surprise, Anushka emerged from the tent, hugging herself tightly with her eyes downcast but otherwise healthy looking. Accepting everyone's concerned hugs graciously, she passed out the remaining hard rations instead of cooking that morning due to the need to pack up quickly. It wasn't long before Yaromira and Vegnus began doling out responsibilities.

"Cecilia, Khujand," Yaromira said addressing both of them. "We need to move soon, but it might take more than an hour to clean up camp and pack. You two might want to sleep under the trees over there and get what rest you can until we move."

Khujand looked over to Irien for help, the thought of sleeping so close to Cecilia and being reminded of his childish heartache scaring him. "Don't ya need ta rest, too?" he asked groggily.

"I'll be fine," Irien said with a pinch to his elbow; she really seemed to have no inkling of what had occured. "You two go sleep and we'll wake you when it's time to wash up and head out."

Without a moment's hesitation, he removed the strap bearing his weapons and left it near his bag in the camp along with his pauldrons, bracers and shinguards. There was a particularly soft patch of grass about seven feet wide directly across from the ledge, bordering the sloping path and wedged underneath an indentation of trees. The shade was cool and he laid with his head against the trunks and his feet pointing at the camp as the others organized their things.

Cecilia's footsteps were soft despite how tired she was, and he could distinctly hear her standing and hesitating for a moment before lying down next to him on the patch of grass. Willing himself not to glance back, he was unsure of what sort of look she was giving him as they both dozed off.

* * *

Khujand awoke from a surprisingly restful yet short nap when Anushka, not quite her normal cheery self but already slightly more animated than before, shook him by the forearm with both hands, once again demonstrating her poor conceptualization of personal space.

"Hey, we need goings now, okay?" the familiar high-pitched voice asked. The same sound that was once slightly annoying was now a bit more endearing after having seen the poor woman's state last night. Like everyone else, he was glad to see she was slowly returning to her normal spastic self. "You need to preparing, Beastwatch is almost a day away!"

He heard the sound of two hooves prancing away as he sat up in the grass, crossing his legs in front of him and blinking the blurriness out of his eyes. The air was still cool and it couldn't have been that long, yet it was a deep sleep without dreams – his favorite kind of sleep.

Cecilia was already up, sitting next to him in the same cross-legged position as she strained her much sleepier-looking eyes to watch the camp despite her difficulties seeing clearly unless it was nighttime. For the second time in the past few days, he saw her out of her armor; this time, the sun was out and he could get a better look. She was wearing a loose pair of black shorts made of some stretchy material which reached halfway down her thigh, allowing him to finally spy the violet-blue tattoos on her legs he had felt too shy to look at before. A series of intricate, detailed geometric patterns that resembled ancient designs like those used by the troll empires (technically both his ancestors and hers) ran down the whole length of her outer leg. Her left thigh bore a light, thin line that he assumed was a long healed scar, probably with an incredible story behind it that he would never be fortunate enough to hear. Realizing that it felt as inappropriately intrusive now to be staring at her legs as it had felt before, he forced his eyes up.

She was wearing a faded white-grey shirt with the sleeves unevenly cut off at the shoulders, revealing the same pattern of violet-blue tattoos on her arms. He forced himself not to linger on the side of the black underwire bra just barely visible, worried that his shyness would transform into another wave of self-loathing were he to gawk at a woman without her knowing. It was only after he started to sense his own discomfort again that he noticed several thin but fresh cuts on her arm; there was a slight yellow within the middle of the redness of a few.

"Ya cuts got some of that stuff in them," he mumbled without thinking. Immediately, he started wondering how he would explain himself were she to react indignantly at his indirect admission of having been admiring her bare skin in the first place.

Turning to him without making eye contact, she looked down and rotated her upper arms as she inspected the cuts herself.

"They were fine last night," she replied in her usual lowered tone. Her voice and manner were natural and decidedly not indignant. "They don't hurt, but they look bad. Can you cleanse them?" Before he could answer, she had already turned to face him, both of them still sitting with their legs crossed and folded in front.

"Sure," he answered as he fought his sheepishness and mimicked her tone. It was the least he could do for her, though his anxiety began filling his head with embarrassing scenarios at the prospect of possibly touching her body.

As she offered him her arms, he stared into the cuts while charging up the cleansing spell and tried to imagine how he could heal her without coming into contact with her skin. He'd already bothered her enough and didn't need to make her any more uncomfortable than he already had. The fact that she had scooted so close to him that her knees were pressed against his only increased his anxiety. Elves were not a people given to excessive touching and he wished she would act more like a normal elf when he was trying to repress the memory of how he had embarrassed himself last night.

He focused on the contents of her cuts as he hovered with his fingertips less than half an inch from the skin of her arms, detecting the line between pure and impure. The familiar feeling of cleansing another person came but much more strongly this time, the feeling of hot and cold existing together without mixing not only ticking his hands as usual but moving into his spine. It had never happened when casting the spell before, and he almost wished her cleansing wouldn't end. With his eyes closed, he felt her arm brush against the palm of his hand and worked even harder to steady his wrists, only for her arm to press into his palm again and stay there. He swore that it wasn't him doing it, but fear prevented him from opening his eyes to gauge her movement until the spell was finished. That familiar feeling of his shrinking mana pool was there and his mind drifted on to something to drink; anything other than the feel of her bare skin in his hands and against his knees was welcome at that point.

"It feels better," she said in a thankful tone a bit louder than how she spoke before and he opened his eyes. The yellow hue of sickness had left the cuts, though they would still need to heal from the physical damage on their own. He looked at the tattoos on her arms again, following the trail down toward her hands as she presented them to him for longer than was necessary. He was torturing himself by lingering over something he couldn't have as he glanced at those soft, open hands he wanted to take hold of, but-

"Do you see it?" she asked, interrupting his thoughts. He blinked as the rustling of the trees helped bring him back to reality.

Khujand couldn't muster the courage to look up to Cecilia's face; he merely fixated on her upturned palms in front of him as he tried to process what she was talking about.

"See what?"

"Come on, we're almost ready!" Irien's sudden presence – both her voice and her hands on both of their shoulders – startled him and he could see in Cecilia's face that she was just as jumpy.

Taking the opportunity to run from and forcibly wipe those feelings from his memory, Khujand stood without saying a word to either of them and made his way for his bag up at the camp. They had a long day ahead of them, and he wanted to grab some soap and head to that wellspring to bathe and think of ways to distract himself on the nearly day-long trek to the town that marked the end of his quest, and – as he tried so hard to force himself to accept – the end of his time spent with this group.

* * *

Packing was surprisingly easy under the direction of such seasoned travelers. Most of the more delicate items had already been tucked away carefully into Vegnus' saddlebags, while Khujand helped Irien while fastening the heavier cases and luggage atop the sturdy riding beast. Her idle, sarcastic banter cheered him up a bit; he couldn't even remember what had said a minute later, but it was a welcome distraction.

Once everything was in order and the camp was empty save the sitting logs, flameless campfire kindling and some paper waste, the group was off. Yaromira and Vegnus had already explained the plan for that morning as they completed packing. It was barely seven in the morning, and if they only stopped one time for lunch and rest they would still make it to Beastwatch about three hours before sundown. They took the main road leading to the east – paved with cobblestone and beaten into the soil by generations of ogres and Laughing Skull orcs taking the same path – and were able to enjoy an uneventful, relatively cool half-day walk under the canopy of the dense forest lining both sides of the road.

Cecilia and Kiul marched shoulder-to-shoulder at the very back of the people-and-talbuk train; he was a large man but not a fighter, while she was one of the most skilled, experienced warriors still among the living but couldn't see well in the daytime. Yaromira, Vegnus and Anushka guided the talbuk in the middle, each of them shouldering equipment and map cases in addition to their own personal bags like everyone else. Out in front, Khujand shouldered his bone club in case anything jumped out in front of the group while Irien, her gnomish dayvision goggles powered up, had her rifle strapped around her neck with the safety on but her finger on the trigger. It was hard to imagine that she had been threatening him with that gun only a few days ago; the way she went in and out of bouts of random conversing so easily lightened his spirits and took the place of the inner voice which seemed to have abandoned him permanently.

When the shorter of the two elves wasn't busy chattering away, focusing on the natural environment around him was almost enough to occupy his thoughts. The weather in Gorgrond was humid, though not quite hot. The seasons on Draenor weren't clear but it most likely wasn't the summer. He wondered how the locals had managed to pave the rocky road through the forest in the first place. The road was only ten feet wide at most parts, with the earth then sloping down into forest and swamp below. For much of the trek, nothing was visible to the sides but trees taller than a one-story building. Occasionally, there were mountains visible off in the distance. The whole environment reminded him of being in the oasis settlements of the Barrens, except there were far fewer signs of civilization in this land.

"Hhmmmmm," he hummed absentmindedly as his mind wandered, not noticing the two green lenses staring up at him as he walked and stroked his short scarlet beard with his free hand.

He had no _logical_ reason to be so sad, really. Those druids waiting at Beastwatch would be able to help those sick people with the samples Khujand had taken from all the dead podlings back at the camp last night. He had made sincere friends within the opposing faction, which was always a good thing to have at one's disposal. He was seeing this new world that would be his home until he finished parole. While he did feel a deep pain unlike any he had in a long time, he knew that if he could go back again, he would have done it all the same. He still would have poured his heart out into a monologue which probably sounded ridiculous to Cecilia, even if she did seem eager to listen.

Cecilia helped him. Just by sharing and understanding, she had helped him so much and he owed her his thanks. As much as his heart screamed otherwise, what little logical coherence was left in his tortured brain tried to convince himself that he shouldn't obsess so much over what could have been. It was his own ignorant lack of maturity that had convinced him that she had wanted anything more than a kindred spirit to vent with during her short assignment in the area, and it was selfish to project his desires onto her. If his feelings got hurt, he only had himself to blame.

"Hey," he muttered as he searched around for what had bumped into his leg.

Irien was still next to him, swinging her hips way too far off to the sides like a goofy kid; one would never guess that the woman was a thousand years old. Still not convinced that he was getting it, she left her rifle to hang by the shoulder strap and held her clenched fists up. Stretching out her pinky fingers, she stuck them in the corners of her mouth like a walrus and pulled her mouth into an exaggerated grin. Although her eyes and eyebrows were not visible, the attempt to make him laugh was clear.

He smiled, shaking his head and trying to lose himself again without realizing for how long he had been lost in thought already.

"There's a clearing up ahead where we can rest," Yaromira said to the whole group. "We're at least halfway and we might arrive a bit early at this rate."

There were still quite a few trees visible off to the right and far ahead on the left from what he could see, though they were perhaps half a mile away from the resting point. Pools of stagnant yet sparkling blue water occasionally poked through the rugged landscape, with patches of grass breaking through the rocks here and there. The birds of paradise with their blazing plumes were soaring slowly overhead; in another world, he could possibly see himself never leaving such a place.

As they unloaded the talbuk to allow it to sit and prepare some lunch, Khujand lied down and leaned with his head on a mossy rock and pulled a large fern over his head. He wanted to eat, but he wasn't in the mood for talking - which would be inevitable if he joined the others for lunch. He could hear Vegnus the dwarf playing a light, soothing tune on his flute, likely something he would use to warm the hearts of his people at taverns in Dun Morogh. The three draenei chatted in some creole mixture of Common and their language, and from what he could pick up they were discussing development with turning the Exodar from a disaster area into a real, livable city. The two elves prattled on in Common about their need for new mattresses at the post office employee quarters in Highpass, the Alliance city where those of their faction could participate in the fight against the Iron Horde in Gorgrond.

With Sandash gone, he was the only member of the Horde there, and the reality of how out of place he was killed his appetite. They had taken him in when they were under no obligation to do so, had opened up to him during various discussions around the campfire before they switched shifts, and he had ignorantly become attached to people with whom he could never share any real connection. Knowing that he may not have the will to give them a real goodbye once they reached the flight point at Beastwatch, he peeked at them one by one from under the fern and tried to freeze his heart, to force himself to let go.

Vegnus, a strangely un-grizzled, non-gruff, non-stout and almost goofy dwarf played a light tune on his flute, his eyes closed in concentration as he exuded a sense of calm inner peace.

Yaromira, a perennial professional who hadn't made it through the mage's academy but still made her family proud with her successful business venture in the shipping industry, buried herself in schedules to catch up on work waiting for them in Highpass.

Kiul, an honest if hotheaded gentleman scientist, tried to play along on Vegnus' drum, lacking any self-consciousness at all about his lack of talent and simply letting himself live in the moment without caring.

Anushka, a sincerely sweet, caring (if clueless) surveyor who was surprisingly competent at her job and somehow turned being hopeless at everything else into a truly endearing personality, tried her best to use the last of the spices and olive oil on the last of their bread to share with everyone else.

Irien, an uncharacteristically chatty and abrasive elf, spoke in Darnassian in a hushed tone as her goggles just barely contained a personality the size of a mountain giant that was pleasantly infectious even when she was insulting someone.

And one more member of the group, one who had done Khujand no wrong by exercising her freedom of choice, one who he legitimately felt no resentment toward, sat silently and stared off into space as he fought the urge to obsess over what she must be thinking of.

They were nice people, just like many other nice groups of people within both factions, but they were still members of a different faction from his. The fantasies he had of them being comparable to his acquaintances in Thunder Pass were as dumb as the fantasies that had clouded his mind before his humiliating blunder the previous night, and his refusal to sit with the others brought him a needed reality check. Very soon, they would all say their goodbyes; as much as he liked them, the truth was that this was war, on a different planet. And back on Azeroth who knew where he or they would end up?

And very soon, a light would shine, just as it had done seven and a half years before. In the blink of an eye, it would be gone, just like all those years before; and he would remain in a prison of his own choices wondering where he could go from there, just like all those years before. As sleep overtook him, he pleaded in vain for his mind to spare him the inevitable dream - one he now remembered he hadn't even just passively suppressed, but had actively tried to forget to cover an old wound. And he knew that his plea was merely wasting time as he drifted off underneath the fern.


	23. That Stare

**A/N: This is the oneshot (though I didn't know about that term at the time) I wrote nine years ago, deleted, then rewrote from memory a few months ago and then decided to write the rest of the story. This was/is inspired by the song "It Will Be Me" by Melissa Etheridge from 2006 (I own neither the rights to the song nor to Warcraft). Most of the chapter is the same according to my memory. Originally, this ended with Groty in jail, Isu wandering the world as a lost soul and I considered both of their stories complete and so stopped RPing them for other characters and then quit writing entirely.**

**All the other chapters of this story have been me musing about what happened to my characters during the interim when I wasn't playing the game or reading/writing fiction.**

* * *

_Seven and a half years ago._

The wind rustled through the canopy high above eastern Nightsong Forest, causing the huge branches to sway back and forth. The movement created a sort of kaleidoscope effect on the dark green grass as the light filtered through in geometric shapes that opened and closed depending on the branches' sway. The trunks of many of the trees were larger in diameter than the ground floor of a small house, and the amount of space required for all of them to receive sunlight left wide open spots of grass, vegetation and underbrush in between. One could hardly tell it was daylight aside from the spots of light filtering down, so thick was the canopy above; the leaves of such massive trees were themselves large enough to cover a dinner plate.

Down on the forest floor, the air was still despite the moderate wind above the trees. It was a disconcerting effect, to be able to listen to the wind without feeling it. Despite the wide open spaces, the breadth of Nightsong Forest caught most winds at the very edges of its boundaries. The atmosphere down below was almost always cool, calm and dark, bathing the entire region in a perpetual still night save the natural clearings occasionally dotting the landscape and the few unnatural ones carved into the sacred woodlands by the green plague.

It was there, curled up on the dark green grass matching the tone of his skin, that the young orc who had strayed much too far away from the major roads clutched the still-bleeding corpse of what was once a comrade in his arms, moving his hand up to close the other's eyelids. Both of them as well as the two other corpses littering the grass were wearing the red tabards standard for the menial laborers of the green plague, signifying easy targets.

They hadn't even seen her coming. Bouncing from one orc to another, the moon glaive spun through their bodies before they could even blink until it became embedded in the third orc's torso. So terrified was the fourth that he hadn't even tried to fight back when she waltzed over to the third corpse to unceremoniously lift her glaive out of its chest. Disgusting orc blood stained the grass, and once she stepped back to admire her work the sole survivor rushed forward to look for one last sign of life before his demonic friend's worthless life slipped away.

The survivor looked up at the tall night elf sentinel now, tears streaming down his cheeks but his fear seeming to dissipate with the acceptance of what he expected to be a swift death.

"My little brother wasn't even cutting down your trees," he sobbed in his guttural tongue. "We're just water carriers. We got lost and-"

"Save it," the elf warrior answered right back.

Grabbing the cowardly monster by his unwashed hair, she brought her glaive down and sliced its head in half. If his corpse was found before the wolves got to it, then he would serve a useful purpose as a warning to the rest of his foul race.

* * *

Senseless killing. Not heroics. Damn whatever the commander had filled all their heads with. They were all murderers, every last one of them.

Isurith stirred only slightly as her limp body struggled to catch up with her lucid mind. The wooden planks of her cell weren't too rough to sleep on, though it was really the sand and lack of a blanket and fresh clothes that bothered her. It was never particularly cold that time of year – even in the very northern portion of the Barrens – but she still felt more comfortable sleeping under a blanket than in unwashed prisoner's rags.

Her entire cell was barely large enough for her to curl up in, and certainly too small for her to even stretch out a single leg. There was barely enough space between the iron bars for her to reach out with a finger and make contact with one of her sister sentinels, though one month in to such a hopeless situation and many of them had already been broken.

The humans that were being kept there were so foolhardy. They were much more stupidly defiant in the beginning and much more openly obedient after the jailer had beaten them into submission.

Elves were different; they were not meant to be caged. They kept silent knowing the futility of begging such depraved creatures as the Horde, but very quickly their spirits were broken by their captivity. Depression set in quickly and only hit harder when a few of the sister elves – and even one of their brother elves, a former barrow den guard – had been shipped off to other military camps to be used and broken by the filthy monsters. All of those remaining behind woke up every day wondering if they would be turned into a commodity next.

"We brought this on ourselves…" Isurith muttered only loudly enough for her own ears to hear.

That was the reality. Everything they experienced was deserved. She had come to realize that what she was doing with the Silverwing Sentinels was wrong months ago, yet her acceptance of the fact that there were no good guys in the Warsong conflict only came after all the mind-numbing hours spent in a cell, prohibited from even speaking a word to her fellow prisoners. That was one of the most immediate forms of day-to-day torment in prison: the monotony. There was simply nothing to do but think. And the more Isurith thought, the more she was unable to escape the reality of what she had done.

For more than ten-thousand years, she had been a defender of all that was good and holy on Kalimdor. Her people preserved nature itself, fighting off countless demons and other threats to their sacred forests. Like the rest of the Kaldorei, she was a heroine, if only the younger races of the planet understood that.

So much good, all undone with a few months of brainwashing. After all her years of heroism, her end after the loss of immortality would be a descent into barbarism, oppression and an ignoble death.

She had been so excited to join the Silverwing Sentinels. Her people were thrust into a brave new world with the destruction of Nordrassil, and new conflicts required new countermeasures. The orcs themselves had admitted to once having fallen to fel corruption; they had only allied with the night elves at the Battle of Mount Hyjal, the elders had said, because they rebelled against the Burning Legion which initially brought them to this planet in the first place. And as soon as Archimonde was out of the way, the green plague turned on the elves which had once been their comrades for the end of the Third War.

"All a lie…" she muttered under her breath again as she lay curled in the fetal position in that dark cage.

Her people were naturally nocturnal, but the forced slave labor at the camp during the daylight hours had disrupted their sleeping schedules. They were broken not only mentally but physically as well, unable to utilize the martial training which would have allowed them to kill the orcs unarmed under normal circumstances. Even if she couldn't quite fall asleep, curling into a ball on the floor was all she was able to or even wanted to do.

With one ear on the floorboard, she could spy the sleeping elves in the next two cages over. Though they all followed the jailer's orders due to fear, she could still sense the haughtiness in them. More so than the prohibition on speaking, the feeling that she couldn't even identify with her sister sentinels anymore made her feel so alone.

Isurith no longer had any doubts about what she had been doing. She had seen with her own eyes how much the orcs cared for each other, and how they were only trying to feed their families – families they loved very much, like any other mortal beings. These humans her people had joined in the Alliance refused to forgive the orcs after they rid themselves of fel corruption, forcing them into internment camps much like Isurith was experiencing now. They turned them into slaves and treated them like animals. This was the same Alliance that high Priestess Tyrande was so intent on joining less than a year ago.

Why? Yes, they were to trust in the Priestess' command, but where could the wisdom be in this decision? The humans had already deforested vast swathes of the Eastern Kingdoms; all their diplomatic talk of only taking as much as they need was hogwash given the fact that they tore trees down even faster than the orcs did. And the dwarves…even if they had families too, their behavior was the most inexcusable of all the races of Azeroth, even more so than the goblins. The dwarves didn't even rip the planet apart for the sake of providing for their families; they cut into Azeroth's flesh for the sake of ancient artifacts not theirs and even more shiny metals.

"A lie. All a lie."

The Horde was a lie. So was the Alliance. So were the Sentinels. And every day, despite their ten-thousand years of stewardship over the planet, Isurith began to fear that even the Kaldorei as a people, with all their pretension and politicking, were becoming a lie. She didn't know who they were anymore, with this selfish tree they had grown in the ocean in order to avoid accepting their mortal fates as the other races had done. She didn't even know who she was anymore.

For a period of time, a voice, a rational voice attempting to speak with reason, tried to convince her that a few months of tyranny and transgression couldn't outweigh the ten millennia she had spent defending nature. But for someone suffering in the depths of depression, making logical decisions and thinking logical thoughts wasn't always possible. The balance of deeds argument held no sway; Isurith felt like she was a true villain, and was now living in a prison cell...where she belonged.

Oh Goddess, she deserved this. Whatever the Horde did to her, she deserved it. She felt guilty for even feeling depressed; she had no right to feel sorry for herself when she had refused to show mercy to all the innocent civilians she had murdered in cold blood.

Isurith's mind went silent as she felt the eyes upon her. She should have seen it coming; her mind and body were so exhausted like the rest of her sister elves that she savored the few hours of sleep her captors granted her, even if it was during the night. There was no way she would have woken up unless there was some drop in air pressure, some shift in the atmosphere. She suddenly realized that it must have been the door slowly creaking open that had woken her up. By the time her mind was quiet again, the heavy, purposeful footsteps had already reached her cell.

She had been left alone for most of her stay. Unlike the others, Isurith had given up her name, rank and personal information as soon as she was dragged into jail. Whatever fight she may have once had in her was drained by the realization that what she was doing for a living was an affront to everything her people claimed to believe in, and once she had been ambushed and captured in a net so easily, her will to defy her captors was crushed. Perhaps out of pity, her jailer and his assistant had prevented her from being roughed up too much during transportation to work assignments there at the Warsong Lumber Mill, garnering more than a little resentment from her comrades who were treated more poorly. The respite only made Isurith feel even worse; she would have preferred to be treated even worse than the others.

What was it now, then? Was her period of respite finally over? Would she have to face the prospect of the retaliation she had convinced herself she deserved?

Slowly, she turned her head up until her glowing silver eyes met the two electric reds of Garot'jin, the Horde jailer and torturer at Mor'shan. He was squatting in front of her cage, the key in his hand as he carefully worked the lock; it was obvious that he was trying to avoid making noise.

"Shhh..."

Though Isurith didn't tremble, the fear gripped her when she realized that the troll was trying to remove her from her cage in the middle of the night. He raised his thick finger to his lips, warning her not to make a sound. The troll's breathing was heavy and the rumble in his lungs was audible when up close, like a beast ready to pounce.

Scenarios raced through her head. She and her comrades all knew he was not lusting after any of them. One of the sister sentinels, in a moment of weakness, had tried offering herself to the Darkspear jailer to avoid extra work responsibilities in the mill; they all learned that he simply wasn't interested in elves when he assigned her to a double-shift of forced labor and made her toil through the night.

There were enough of the troll women fawning over him that the gutsy elf should have known better, anyway, especially considering the sick defensiveness that Garot'jin had over his captives when it came to the more base desires of men at the camp. He prohibited the grunts and workers from groping or assaulting his prisoners even when he allowed them to be beaten for working too slowly, and he disallowed hitting in the face. He wasn't a lecher, but certainly a madman, or, to be more apt, a crazed monster.

So if he wasn't dragging Isurith out to violate her, what on Azeroth did he want? Would she simply be tortured now, too? Was she finally being shipped off? There was no significant information she held that the others didn't; what was the point?

Isurith remained curled in the fetal position, watching as the jailer slowly swung the door open. Still squatting down, he continued to hold it open as he paused, taking his time before speaking. He leaned in close to her, but she didn't bother squirming away. She had seen him gore one of the humans with his tusks once; if that's what this was, then she had no right to cringe. She wanted to be hurt. She deserved to be hurt. Maybe it would help her sleep better at night, knowing that her victims had some sort of collective revenge.

"Get up," he rasped in passable Darnassian, his voice barely audible like the low pressure winds before a storm. "Not a sound."

Sticking one of his legs back behind him, he leaned his weight back and slowly rose to his feet, his hand still on the cage door. Isurith's eyes flickered back toward the door leading out to the anteroom of the prison; it was still open, though there were no assistants this time. She looked to Garot'jin's free hand and noticed that he wasn't carrying any shackles with him, nor any weapons. He was always so paranoid about security to the point where he made the prisoners and even his assistant paranoid as well; it didn't make logical sense for him to take a prisoner out alone and unarmed.

"Ya don't have time," he somehow managed to hiss without sounding particularly aggressive. "Move. Now."

Isurith only lingered for a few seconds longer before pushing herself up from the ground with as much precision as he had opened the door with. Without so much as a sound, she rose to her feet, keeping her eyes downcast as she wrung her hands in front of her. That she didn't quite know what he was planning to do was even worse than had he just hit her.

Garot'jin stepped aside and motioned with his hand for her to exit the cell, and she did as she was told, stepping out into the hall while ensuring that her weight didn't press down on any of the floorboards too suddenly. The amount of time that it took for him to close the door of her cage again was agonizingly long, only adding to the tension in the air.

It was then that her captor filled her with even more shock. With an odd silence to his steps in spite of his wide gait, he slinked right past her, giving his back to her as though she wasn't the trained, experienced warrior all Horde soliders had come to fear. He didn't even bother looking back as he led her out the door to the anteroom. His dismissiveness toward Isurith's abilities as he turned away from her only added to her humiliation. She had fought demons and monsters for millennia; there was not a fighter on Azeroth as skilled as the night elf sentinels simply due to the amount of time they had spent honing their skills.

And here was this short-lived monster, turning his back to her and walking out in front without even restraining her as though there was nothing to fear. She was reminded of how broken she was, how strongly they had established control over her.

Not only was she a cold blooded murderer of the innocent, but she wasn't even a successful one. She was nothing. And in her stupor, that nothing found herself doing as she was told like an obedient dog, following her careless jailer without even being forced nor having been informed of what was going on.

Garot'jin slowed down ahead of her, giving her time to notice that they had stopped moving right in front of the main door of the jail. It was almost certainly past midnight by a few hours, and there were no other officials to be seen; he must have sent the night watchman out.

The monster turned to face her, and for the very first time she saw his eyes red not from all the drugs he had been abusing but from the power of his foul voodoo magic. Isurith felt disgusted with herself for feeling anxious around this dumb, primitive creature. Even if she had committed atrocities and crimes against nature while claiming to defend it, she was still a heroine once; to acknowledge that she was so afraid of this thing that she wouldn't even take the chance to attack him with the benefit of being unrestrained only intensified her self-loathing.

There was only a single brief moment that they hung there before the door, yet it felt like forever as she was finally able to muster up the courage - she hated admitting that she was too scared before, but her ego was pulverized beyond pretense now - to observe the terror that lorded over the once-proud Kaldorei and Alliance warriors now held ransom by the Horde.

Some of the dryads and the older forest spirits spread rumors of her people, the night elves, once having descended from a tribe of trolls who had settled on the banks of the first Well of Eternity. This was largely taken as a myth or even an insult by many of her people; for most of their millennia of seclusion during the Long Vigil, the only trolls they ever encountered were the dark trolls. One tribe, the Shadowtooth, were friendly, though even they remained secluded away from other peoples. The jungle trolls she had seen at the Battle of Mount Hyjal and in Warsong Gulch itself were caught in the midst of battle as she was, and there was no way to get a good look. Standing still for that one small moment, Garot'jin was the first troll she had ever been able observe closely.

Laying aside her racial animosity - she had lost so much faith in her people and herself that to do so was disappointingly easy - she couldn't help but believe the rumors were true. He had a tendency to slouch less than the other trolls, and that made him look less like the knuckle-dragging horrors she had heard in descriptions and more like what was simply a primordial elf, even more wild than her own night elves already were.

His long limbs were thin but wiry and tough, much like how a Kaldorei man would look had he to fend in the wilds with a much more difficult, trying lifestyle but without the benefit of a higher civilization or a regular, balanced calorie intake.

There were fewer digits on his hands and feet, almost as though his appendages had not entirely finished developing from whatever earlier form both peoples had descended from.

The two long, sharp tusks jutted down from his upper jaw almost like an exaggerated version of the fangs of night elves or the simple canine teeth of high elves.

The Kaldorei had features considered sharp and feral, though with his hawk nose and strong, jutting chin, Garot'jin appeared even sharper and more exotic than the Kaldorei males she had encountered since they woke up from the Emerald Dream.

Like a night elf man, the lower jaw was stronger, the eyes deeper set and the face not quite as flat as a night elf woman. Yet Garot'jin was an entire phase beyond that; his lower jaw protruded even more as though he could easily gnaw on the tough meat of hunted game and the thick roots of edible tubers, and the high bridge of his sharp nose met with his thick brow to set his eyes even deeper into his skull, protected from the blows of enemies. His forehead actually sloped and his thick skull looked well-protected were she to try and strike at him.

Yet most similar were the broad, wide shoulders and narrower waist common to the menfolk of both their peoples, as well as the long, sensitive ears sticking out behind his head. Facing forward and from the chest up, there would be no way to know from his sillhouette were he a night elf or a jungle troll save the color of his glow; all night elves had either silver or amber glowing eyes, while only the most powerful of the trolls held either a red or blue glow. That Garot'jin's electric reds burned when he was sober was a reminder of his barbarous, uncivilized connection to the spirit world that should have chilled her.

And yet, it didn't. When Isurith set aside her racism, she was somehow able to set aside her fear. He was not abusive unless he wanted information, and - as much as she _despised_ herself for admitting it - he was not cruel without reason. He was not perverted in the way he dealt with female prisoners, and the gentleness which she had seen him display after he led another sentinel out of his torture chamber was as fascinating as it was disturbing. Garot'jin was clearly sick and likely imbalanced even by the standards of his own kind, but for whatever reason, he seemed to bear no desire to hurt Isurith. And that only confused her even more.

"Oh!" she gasped under her breath as a fire that didn't burn her shot through her arm. She felt a tingle through her shoulder and down into her spine as she suddenly realized that Garot'jin was touching her.

"Ya gotta leave now," he whispered with an unreadable tone and expression that no longer filled her with fear but still set her pulse faster as she apprehensively wondered what was happening.

She looked down to find his smooth fingers wrapped around her forearm. His hands were massive, much larger than the hands of a man of her race of similar height - if such a man existed. She couldn't have twisted out of his grasp even if she had pulled with all her might. Even without splaying his fingers, they occupied most of the length of her forearm as he held on to her with a grip that was unsurmountably strong despite his bony wrists, yet wasn't even remotely vice-like. It was as though he was attempting to remind her of the seriousness of his words rather than coerce or intimidate her. How she could sense such an attempt, she could not explain, yet she felt it nonetheless.

"They're comin' for ya in tha morning," he whispered urgently, the rumble of the powerful breaths in his lungs ceasing momentarily as he spoke with a deep, baritone voice that her traitorous ears suddenly perked up to. "I saw ya name listed on tha missive taday. Ya gonna be shipped off ta another camp."

Isurith searched through his burning reds with her burning silvers, trying to comprehend what her jailer was explaining. He paused and allowed her to stare, almost as if to allow her time for the information to sink in. Why was he commuicating this message to her? Where was he taking her?

There she stood, unsure of whether to regard the speaker in front of her as a beast or as a man. Yet he was attempting to reach out for something, something unrelated to the conflict of their factions. The information seemed related to her personally. They were...the Horde was going to send her elsewhere?

That could only mean...she tried to wrap her head around it. Isurith had spent much of this month tormenting herself with thoughts of her own sins, convincing herself that she was evil and beyond redemption. She was a heartless murderer of orcish civilians just trying to find their place in the world, their short lifespans not allowing them the wisdom of her people which allowed them to properly comprehend the balance of nature. She felt that she deserved to be hurt; the thought of being sent off to another Horde war camp, to be used and abused like she had heard in the stories, should have been the ultimate fulfillment of her desire to be punished for her transgressions.

But she faltered.

What she had worked so hard to convince herself she deserved was too horrifying a thought for her depressed, tormented, muddled mind to bear. Isurith was over ten thousand years old. She had seen the Burning Legion's first invasion of Azeroth and had helped to defeat the second. She had witnessed the entire planet being ripped apart during the Sundering, and became a battle-hardened warrior with the rest of the women of the night elves during the Long Vigil. And yet now, robbed of her immortality, her faith in her people and herself and even her basic freedom and rights, Isurith experienced her own moment of weakness that increased her hatred of herself tenfold.

"Will you help me?" she asked bluntly in the darkness, her face revealing her embarrassment at requesting help from the last person on Azeroth she should expect it from.

Garot'jin wasted no time; he didn't gloat, strut or seem to hold any chip on his shoulder at all. Without even holding on to her gaze with some sort of sly or knowing look, he simply turned around and opened the main door of the jail, the somewhat overcast night not allowing too much more light inside of the front anteroom. He turned back to her before stepping out.

"Shadowmeld."

Finally, it dawned on Isurith: she didn't know why, she didn't know how, but this monster - no, this _man_ \- really was helping her. Perhaps he had some ulterior motive, perhaps he would gain in some way or another, but that was all beyond her knowledge now. If she remained in that jail until the morning, it would be the end of her, and her jailer was trying to prevent that.

In a flash, she followed his instructions and her entire body became nearly transparent and barely visible, including her tattered, dark brown pants and shirt. Garot'jin didn't flinch as his hand now appeared to be curled around nothing, and he pulled Isurith outside while shutting the door behind him. The jail was tucked into a corner of the Mor'shan Rampart that formed a natural dead end into the rocky, mountainous landscape, and aside from the fenced in recreational area there was little else to speak of.

Most of the recruits had already gone to sleep that time of night, a simple retinue of night watchmen all the defense that the camp needed. The majority of the attacks by the Silverwing Sentinels during Isurith's time in the service were against the civilian loggers and laborers around the gulch and the lumber camps themselves; terrorizing the actual workers was the primary goal and the military camp held little strategic value to the local leadership at Silverwing. As such, the orcs had little to fear at night despite most of the night elves' activity taking place during the twilight hours.

There was at least a two minute walk between the jail and the main entrance into Ashenvale. Although it was a short trip, it required them to weave in and out of buildings and to turn around corners where stray grunts or even peons could be lurking. From the moment they had left the front doorstep of the jail, Isurith knew it would possibly be the most harrowing two minutes she would experience for a very long time.

Walking beside him at first, she glanced over at Garot'jin as she felt him pulling his own arm behind his back and tugging her along with it. His eyes were focused ahead, behaving cooly as though he were merely going for a stroll in the middle of the night - something that, given his mental state, would likely be part of his usual behavior. Fiddling with his big hands over her forearm, she felt him shift his strong yet gentle grip on her right forearm from his left hand to his own right, holding her single-file behind him. This man, this member of the Horde, this person who was supposed to ensure her continued captivity and then her transport to certain doom, was shielding her from the view of any possible onlookers.

The fire spread, replacing the tingle as a heat which she hated to enjoy ran up and down her backbone and even up through her neck and into the back of her head. As she pressed herself against his back and buried her head in the space between his large shoulders to better hide herself, it dawned on her that a man who she was taught to believe was her eternal racial and factional enemy was hiding something from his comrades. Were they to be discovered, he surely would suffer an even worse fate than her. It was illogical on his part and should come off as insincere to her. She should suspect him to be playing a trick, to be planning to do something awful and then snap her neck and leave her in the bushes somewhere.

But she _didn't_ suspect that. She didn't feel that he would do that. As crazy as it sounded, something inside her knew - or felt that it knew - that this troll was only trying to help her. It didn't make any sense.

As they weaved their way unevenly between the quickly constructed makeshift buildings of the ever-expanding camp, Isurith could hear a few scattered conversations in Orcish. Though she could not see in front of the two of them, she could feel that Garot'jin was making sure to avoid any prying eyes as he turned around corners, storehouses and barracks in a winding path that brought them in odd zig-zag lines as he avoided the voices of allies he was, in a legal sense, betraying.

"My cousin," Isurith could just barely hear a male orc sighing painfully in the distance and likely around more than one corner. "She was pregnant at the time. The night elves, they...oh...we could barely identify her remains..."

"I'm so sorry," replied the low voice of a female orc. "I haven't lost any family yet, but I can imagine how much it must hurt..."

Isurith shut her eyes at that point, unable to shut her ears from the conversation but wishing in vain that the tighter she held her eyelids closed, the further away the voices would drift. The tabards the peons wore were sometimes quite concealing. She wondered if she was the one who...

Wait a minute - they had been walking too far. She opened her right eye only to see the main gates of the rampart as Garot'jin lead them westward, passing the gates entirely. The large, wooden ramparts and the watch tower both had large bonfires lit, and three grunts were standing watch. There was no way they could have gone by without her semi-transparent form being spotted or, at the minimum, Garot'jin being questioned. It was impossible. But...where were they going, then?

She didn't dare remove her forehead from the middle of his upper back, but she continued darting her eyes out to the sides. As they crossed through more pathways between outhouses and munitions stockpiles, she realized that they were leaving the camp entirely. Once they passed the last buildings, the night was pitch black and she felt Garot'jin come to a halt for a split second as he ducked down. Leaning down with him, she heard the sound of his smooth, leathery hide squeezing through a wooden opening.

"Watch ya head," he ordered quietly without turning back to look at her.

Isurith crooked her head up and saw that there was a gap in the western ramparts just barely wide enough to fit Garot'jin's huge frame. Following him through, she found herself in a narrow ditch cutting through the rocky hills marking the border between Ashenvale and the Barrens littered with relatively thin pine trees.

As they bounded forward through the ditch, she felt him switch his grip on her right forearm to his left hand again, keeping her at his side instead of behind him. Once again behaving in a way she could not rationally justify, she broke her shadowmeld and slipped her forearm out of his grip to let her hand to lie within his, completely cupped by his massive palm. It was easier to remain side-by-side this way, and as distasteful as it was, she somehow felt safer like that - as though she truly would be able to rely on this enemy soldier who wasn't behaving like her enemy. As wrong as the path should have seemed, his hand guiding her along felt right.

He began to run, and although his kind weren't built for speed like hers, he kept up a surprising pace considering the narrow, uneven ground of the ditch between the hills as he led her through a pathway unknown to her people. Throughout all of the Long Vigil, even without the outlanders at their southern border, Ashenvale was the southernmost lands of her people; they never ventured beyond their sacred woods, and even this natural passageway into her homeland was entirely unfamiliar.

After a few silent minutes, they emerged from the hills and were in what must have been the only part of Ashenvale her ten thousand years hadn't taken her through. What had seemed like level if uneven ground turned out to be elevated above the rest of the area, and they were on a flat, grassy ledge overlooking a shallow ravine between the familiar deep purple and green-leaved trees. There was a rickety wooden fence with a single gap lining the edge of the ledge, and the grass was littered with tobacco leaves and beer cans. Isurith surmised that this was a place where some of the Horde soldiers congregated during their leisure time.

"There," Garot'jin murmured in a slightly louder voice as he released his grip on her hand.

She felt strangely cold and it was only then that she realized how soothing and warm his touch had felt. She should have felt disgusted with herself for having been comforted by being held in his grasp, but by that point her head was spinning so much with the knowledge of her possible trafficking to another camp and the prospect of her now former jailer aiding her escape that she couldn't focus her thoughts.

The two of them stepped forward to the gap in the rickety fence and took in the sight of the ravine. The white noise filling Isurith's ears subsided as the strenuous escape seemed almost over. All along the side of the ravine, from the embankment back into the wood, were the tall Ashenvale trees she would recognize anywhere. The trees lining the sides of the ravine formed a natural wall, blocking out the possibility of any onlookers from the sides spying what she was now sure was an act of treason on his part.

A light shone in the distance, and Isurith and Garot'jin both fixated on what seemed – despite her shattered faith – like a sign from Elune herself. Perhaps a hundred yards away where the ravine petered out, there stood a circular clearing. The huge branches of the enormous trees above stretched out far enough to cover the entirety of the ravine itself, but the clearing at the end was marked by a break in the canopy where they could faintly notice the bright stars above. The single blue beam of light hovered down through the hole in the canopy, illuminating just the very top of a small, grassy hill in the center of the clearing. It was so natural yet seemed so well designed, the center of the hill equidistant from each edge of the clearing.

Tiny blue, wisplike particles floated in and out of that single blue beam, dancing in circles with such elegance that she could almost feel the light of the moon beckoning her to run toward it. She wasn't sure if they were particles of dust or actual wisps, but as they danced in and out of the blue pinnacle, a magical, otherworldly feeling descended that she knew they both felt.

"Follow tha ravine," he said in a normal speaking voice for the first time that night while pointing. "After tha hill, ya gonna be in southern Nightsong. Ya can find ya way ta ya Outpost once ya hit tha trees." When he spoke this way, so normal, so casual, he almost appeared as though he were speaking to a friend whom he knew well. There was neither the caution expected when speaking to one who was legally an enemy nor the restraint when a person spoke to someone they had just met.

Garot'jin continued staring past the hill as he spoke. There was little emotion in his voice, but there was something readable on his face. Isurith turned to him, finally able to get a good look at his visage without the war paint common to his people and which he usually wore.

Upon inspection, she realized how much older the face paint had made him appear; he was still…a youth?

There was no ambiguity about it; the lack of any lines in his face strongly implied that he had only seen, at most, twenty summers. The jailer who tortured members of the Alliance, then almost appeared apologetic, then drank himself into oblivion was around only two decades old? How could he be responsible for watching over experienced warriors?

He continued staring across the ravine wistfully, oblivious to the fact that he was being examined or that his charge hadn't run away yet. Perhaps she should have just accepted the help as a kind act from a stranger and ran, but Isurith felt as though she peered into his psyche as he stood there hypnotized by the blue pinnacle. And despite the swirling thoughts and emotions inside her as she still struggled to process her situation as it was unfolding that night, she swore that she felt a sense of longing inside the perplexing jailer. It was almost as if he wanted to burst through the fence and run across the ravine himself.

Despite her rationality shouting at her not to, she turned to face him all the way and tried to communicate with the being she was taught to hate as a beast but could now only view as a man.

"Why?"

Those two bright red eyes blinked a few times as Garot'jin was pulled out of his stupor, almost resisting the interruption of his trance by her very immediate question. As those two long tusks swung to the side to face her, the enormous young man almost appeared startled that she was facing him. For the first time, she was able to hold on to his gaze with hers, feeling an energy crackling in those eyes that was disproportionate to his youth. He looked at her without a hint of aggression or scorn, and spoke with a sincerity that shocked her.

"Why what?" he asked with a tone of legitimate curiosity and a look of utter confusion spreading across his face.

Isurith pursed her lips as her desperation to understand him broke through, betraying more emotion than was normal for her or any night elf for that matter. But she had to know. They were supposed to be enemies, and now he was committing treason to help her. He hadn't helped any of her sister sentinels, and there was nothing to gain on his part from doing any of this. It was irrational for him to help her and irrational for her to believe that his kindness was sincere. The fact that her heart wouldn't let her believe it was anything _other than _sincere caused her far more confusion than even he must have been experiencing.

"Why did you agree to help me?"

Garot'jin continued looking right back into her eyes without a hint of awkwardness. She could almost physically sense the bond of trust between them - it wasn't too intense to seem fake, nor was it so faint that it could be doubted. They were no longer members of factions but two people speaking to each other freely, one of them extending assistance to the other without seeming to expect any reward.

"Ya different from tha others," he answered with a lack of hesitation that surprised her when she thought she was already at her limit. "For one month, I observed ya here. Saw tha regret in ya eyes, in tha way ya always starin' at tha floor. Ya ain't arrogant or proud of all tha killin'. I felt how ya're disillusioned with it all." His voice went low again, though the feeling of openness was still there as he spoke more frankly than most of her close friends.

Isurith couldn't help but furrow her brow at the answer. She disliked hearing another person talk about her so positively; it felt overwhelming, uncomfortable and undeserved when her disillusionment was precisely because she felt she was no better than the others. But she knew that she couldn't accept what would happen to her in the morning if she stayed in the jail, and she had a strong feeling that Garot'jin wouldn't accept her rejecting his help.

It was wrong, so very wrong, but the revelation of what he was doing for her filled her with concern for him. He was Horde, he was a monster, a primordial, primitive cave-dweller from the stone age, a savage link in her own people's development. He was just an undeveloped elf she should feel absolutely nothing for.

But she did. Her gratitude filled her with fear not of him, but for him. This man who only knew her as a dejected, obedient prisoner for the past month was running a great risk to help her. It felt selfish to accept his help despite the fact that she had no choice.

"They will know that I disappeared," Isurith said in a worried tone. She no longer chastised her for allowing her feelings to show through; this man was being more kind to her than many of her own comrades-in-arms, who had made no attempts to negotiate her release so far.

He snorted a cynical laugh through his nose and proceeded to speak as though the two of them were not members of opposing factions at all. "I'll lie," he sneered with quite a bit of resentment in his voice. "Tell them I took my right as jailer and broke ya myself, then dumped tha body when I was done with ya."

His voice grew quiet at the end of his sentence as his face winced with an expression of…an expression Isurith herself made when her hatred of her own self momentarily increased beyond its normal range. It was as if Garot'jin disliked to have even spoken the idea out loud, though he would no doubt need to say something like that to his superiors in order to keep the secret.

He turned away from her as his heavy brow arched downward, rubbing his palm over his shaved head as he behaved much like a person who had just said something they wish they hadn't. She watched his eyes dart across the ravine, and when he spoke again his voice rasped low and she wasn't sure if she was meant to hear it or not.

"They'd probably give me a fuckin' medal or somethin'…bastards."

The swirl of emotions inside of Isurith finally blended into one coherent mix as her confusion changed to understanding.

Even if Garot'jin tried to hide it now, she had already looked right into his mind – through his face, through his voice, through his eyes…through his foolish, nonsensical act. She knew what was swirling inside of him as well. She knew that anger, an anger a person directed at their own self, because she had been living it every waking moment. She knew that remorse one felt when finally admitting inside that you'd committed an unspeakable evil and could no longer blame those around you.

It all made sense now; the Warsong Outriders had _wanted_ a man barely out of his teens for the job.

Garot'jin wasn't some sociopath who had chosen to become a torturer and then slowly realized that his path in life was one of damnation. He wasn't a battle-hardened veteran who had been desensitized by the horrors of war. He was just a stupid boy whose immaturity had led him into the hands of people who would eventually use him as the fall guy. They wanted someone young so he would be moldable and impressionable, and would follow orders she knew he felt in his heart were morally wrong because he wanted to prove something to his peers. And he hated both his own comrades and his own self; Garot'jin was no longer even hiding it.

She turned to face him, and when she did he crooked his neck over to see her. In that single moment, she caught his eye and they looked right into each other. Through means her mind couldn't explain but her heart couldn't deny, Isurith looked right inside her melancholy jailer and for those few seconds, saw a reflection of herself. She recognized the depression of someone who truly despised their own self and actions, and woke up every morning cursing life. Maybe others would say she was dreaming or projecting, but she knew - more than anything she thought she had known in a long time - what the two of them saw in each other.

Hurt. Hate. Pain. Shame. Guilt. Despair. Two hearts weary with regret to the point of almost wishing they would beat no longer. She saw it, and she absolutely knew he did too. They stared into each others eyes for far too long, yet somehow spoke more to each other than they could have with words. The two of them began breathing heavier as the full extent of the pain broke through, both criminals realizing that they had more in common than they thought. It was as though a wall had come down, first filling them with absolute terror at the thought of being exposed and then comfort in the knowledge that they had both been broken in the same places and pieced back together in the same erroneous way. It all happened within a split second, waves of shared emotions passing between them.

His eyes growing wide as if the level of intimacy was too intense, Garot'jin turned away to focus on the ravine again, but the two of them had already lost their proverbial footing. It was killing him inside; she _knew_. And while he never stood up for the other sentinels when ordered to drag them into the torture chamber for information, he had chosen to help her – ignorant, brainwashed Isurith - because he recognized the remorse in her, too. They both spurred something in each other, and even without trying she felt as though her remorse had awoken him to his own.

There was no reason to hate him, not even with what he had done to her comrades, not even with the faction he was fighting with. They were both guilty, and there she was, accepting his help without the ability to offer anything in return.

What she felt was childish. It was unrealistic. It was downright preposterous. But she couldn't hold it in, not with the knowledge that she would be free while he would remain in what had been a prison for them both. It felt so unjust.

"Come with me."

For a moment, it almost seemed as if he hadn't heard her. There was still no breeze that night, and the sounds of the camp were far behind them. It was as though he was again lost in his own thoughts, one of the few times she had witnessed him neither drunk nor high in the past month. As he continued to stare into the ravine with that wistful expression, the feeling of longing she sensed on his face broke away as she felt his confusion return. Only then did the look of shock replace that longing on his inexplicably brutish yet intelligent face as he crooked his neck to look down at her.

Isurith's heart pounded against her chest as Garot'jin's sad gaze met hers again. She could feel the pinpricks of the body heat they were sharing as she moved toward him. Her hope of escape mixed with her hope of helping him, just as he was helping her.

"Where?"

His voice was a perplexed, confounded whisper, though neither of them needed to speak particularly loud given the sensitivity of their long ears. Isurith continued to look up at him, no longer able to control the irrational sympathy welling up inside of her. The sincere confusion in Garot'jin's voice only seemed to confirm her suspicion that he just might leave, and she pressed on, desperately trying to reciprocate.

She felt lightheaded as he seemed to understand her, any sort of fear she may have felt from such a dangerous man melting away. Reaching out with her left hand, she slid her fingers onto his right wrist the same way he had when he guided her out of the prison, in an attempt to return the favor. That same fire she had felt run through her forearm at the sensation of his touch ran through her fingers and the palm of her hand, and her blood rushed through to the tips of her ears, down across her stomach, in every inch of her body as he allowed her to pull him to her. The fact that he twitched under her grip right when she swore she had witnessed his pupils dilate insinuated that he felt it as well.

At that moment, she knew, and she knew that he knew; they both felt at the same time what had been so hard for each of them to admit on their own. She pulled gently on his wrist in an effort to coax him out of his mental prison just as he had coaxed her out of her physical one.

"Away from this place. Just come," she whispered as images of them running away from both sides of the conflict filled her head.

Though his psychological issues had been apparent within her first week of imprisonment, Isurith could sense the full range of fluctuation he was feeling. His shock and confusion were quickly replaced with despair and more than a hint of contriteness directed at her. She still couldn't explain how she knew what he was feeling, but she was certain, without a shadow of a doubt, that she knew. She felt her heart sink low in her chest as Garot'jin faltered.

"It's too late for that," he muttered both sadly to himself and apologetically to her. "Go. Ya runnin' outta time." He hung his head low with the posture of a beaten man, and she ached with the pain of his disappointment in himself as though it was hers.

Both of their ears pricked up as the still air carried the sound of orcish voices headed their way. She couldn't gauge his sense of hearing, but she certainly knew it was coming from the ditch which had led them there and that there were multiple voices chatting jovially. Whoever had littered the area with their beer cans and tobacco was coming for a late night drinking session, and given Garot'jin's familiarity with the spot they may very well have expected him to be there.

Isurith tugged on his wrist one more time, giving him the most pleading look she could muster. "Please come," she urged in a voice low enough to be hidden by the wind. "It's never too late; just leave this life."

Every muscle in her body tensed as she kept her fingers wrapped around such warm hide, and she could feel his pulse accelerating as she could almost see the images of escape running through his head as well. Hers beat in tandem with his as she fought the urge to scream at him to come, to let himself be free like he was letting her be, her unexplainable utter frustration and concern for the young man tearing her apart. Garot'jin placed a hand on her shoulder and she was burned alive, not with lust but with another feeling she couldn't identify. A single fire shot through them and this time, he didn't look away despite the intensity.

The voices grew louder, one of them laughing and clearly intoxicated. Her hope - a hope she didn't even know the reason for - was crushed, and a deep wound cut into her heart as his grip on her shoulder weakened and then fell away in defeat. "Ya gotta leave now," he whispered in a voice that almost sounded panicked. "Get outta here and don't look back. I'll distract tha others." She shook her head at him, no longer able to speak as the spectrum of emotions fluctuating too rapidly in too short an amount of time that night obliterated her ability to think. And she didn't miss it at all; all rational thought was left for what she felt, and she no longer felt the need to justify anything. And it was at that moment that her efforts to return the favor were torn beyond the control of them both. Garot'jin looked at her one last time in sadness they both shared. "It'll be alright," he whispered with that deep, soothing voice.

Isurith grimaced, feeling her own sense of defeat Garot'jin's insistence on staying behind. But she also knew that whoever was coming could report him, and condemn the savior that, in their shared lapse in reason, had chosen to give her a second chance at life.

A soothing warmth seared into her other shoulder as he nudged her forward to the ledge, and Isurith fought an internal battle to avoid dragging him along with her. For his act of kindness, his reward was that he would remain in a prison of his own choices while she would be free and in control. It felt wrong - this time, truly wrong. But his sense of urgency, the approaching voices and what little logical coherence was left in her brain drove her.

Skipping forward, she slid down the ledge and into the ravine, the dark brown of the tree trunks whizzing by her vision as her legs propelled her into the night. She felt a new type of guilt now, and the fact that there was nothing she could do for the young man didn't do a thing to lessen that feeling. She bounded barefoot through the tall grass of the ravine, the air whipping through her hair providing some solace as she realized she truly was escaping. Though she didn't look back yet, she knew he was still watching her, waiting to see and be sure that she would make it. Spurred on by a renewed sense of hope for a new beginning, she ran even faster, her pain and shame remaining but not slowing her down.

Isurith reached the end of the small ravine and leaped up to the top of the hill in the middle of the clearing. That opening in the canopy was the most gorgeous sight she had ever laid eyes upon and the still, unwaving branches of the tall Ashenvale trees allowed her a perfect view of the moon above. Elune's grace shone down on her just as she had spied it on the hilltop from afar, bathing her in that same otherwordly light as the very real wisps floated around her as though to celebrate her return.

She did look back finally, only to see Garot'jin still there, his hands bracing the makeshift wooden fence as he leaned as far over the ridge as he could to watch her. At roughly one hundred yards, they were too far to speak now - it wouldn't have been safe to yell - but they were close enough to look each other in their glowing eyes. They remained far too long for safety's sake, neither one of them willing to be the first to look away.

And there she stood, not quite proud but still free, her future and her fate once again her own. It felt so very unfair; even if he was Horde, even if he was a troll, even if he had been a part of her month of imprisonment, it felt unfair to see the wistfullness and depression in his eyes as he watched her leave, knowing that he would still be trapped there. It even felt unfair that she couldn't return the favor, couldn't save him from the poor choices he had made, couldn't do something so crazy as actually take him with her.

Despite what some might call common sense, despite the propaganda her superiors had filled her head with, despite what she tried to tell herself to believe, the night elf warrior admitted that Garot'jin's one brief act of mercy that night would stay with her forever. Wherever he went, whatever he did, she hoped that he would be able to escape the ruination that was his life at that prison camp. And as impossible as it seemed, she wished that one day, she would be able to meet him again. Perhaps by then, in another life, they would have both found some form of redemption for the crimes they had both committed.

There was stirring in the ditch behind him; the connection they had shared in that moment was severed. Before his comrades even had the time to call him for something, the jungle troll had already blinked. In that split second, the hilltop had become empty and she was gone.


	24. Be Seeyin Ya

**A/N: Breakup/goodbye convo inspired by listening to "The Dance " by Garth Brooks on loop. Yeah, kind of sappy perhaps (like the story), but I'm happy. I own neither Warcraft nor the song.**

"Well, where are they supposed ta put their weapons?"

"They can leave them here at the gate!"

"Ain't happenin'."

"That isn't for you to deci-"

"**Move**," he ordered in fluent Orcish as he shoved the teenager in charge of watching the wooden town gate aside.

"Khujand, this isn't necessary!" Yaromira tried to reason in her slow, heavily accented Orcish.

"I don't want to leave my rifle with this kid."

"Quiet, Irien!" Cecilia's Orcish was rusty, though strangely it was not as accented as her Common.

"Listen to your boss, you short-tusked-"

"Okay, let's make an agreement," Kiul interjected as he jumped between a very sour jungle troll and a now cowering Azerothian orc recruit just trying to do his job. "We're just going to rest for a bit before we return to Highpass; perhaps we could leave our weapons in the care of the flight master?"

"The flight master has no authority!"

"I still don't want to leave my rifle with this kid."

Khujand snatched Kiul's neutrality pass right from his shirt pocket and slapped the gate guard in the face with it. "This was signed by tha commander here. We goin' ta him now and he can settle it."

"Mister Khujand!" Kiul whispered urgently as he tried to take his neutrality pass back.

"Settle down laddie, this isn't helping things," Vegnus whispered as well while trying to pull the grumpy troll by the arm.

"That which our surly companion intended to express," started Anushka magnificent Orcish, "is that our group would be glad to surrender our armaments for the duration of our residence in this municipality, however we're concerned about the veracity of a plan which involves the containment of said armaments in a zone as insecure as a wooden entrance structure."

Everyone except the recruit was staring slack jawed at the spaz who suddenly became an Exodar scholar.

"What," Anushka asked in Common now, "most of us learnings Orcish on Draenor. You to think I must incapacity for talkings all language?"

Exploiting everyone's (including Khujand's) awe at Anushka's linguistic enigma, Yaromira grabbed a loose piece of Vegnus' shirt and walked ahead, holding up her neutrality pass. "Look we have the right to pass through and my co-manager and I aren't armed, we'll bring more grunts here to help carry all our weapons to the area commander!"

Before anyone could even react, the pair had wandered into the modest yet relatively busy settlement with their hands in the air, the Azerothian Horde adventurers all staring suspiciously and the local Laughing Skull orcs not seeming to care at all.

It would be difficult to describe Beastwatch as a town, and it certainly wasn't a garrison. The population, however, proscribed it from being referred to as a village. Just as Yaromira had insisted a few days ago, a local inn had finally been constructed, with a deep basement for preparing food and a wide upper level which offered little privacy but numerous bunks. With the establishment of a forge run by the Azerothians, numerous production and resource industry workers had moved in, along with all the services necessary to keep such a place functioning. Surprisingly, while the goblin traders from Azeroth did arrive with their money and contracts, the local Laughing Skull orcs had proven much more enterprising than the Frostwolf clan of Frostfire Ridge, and a large number of local establishments were run by those native to this alternate version of Draenor. That was good for the whole group; shops and businesses run by members of the Horde from Azeroth might still refuse to provide service for members of the Alliance out of prejudice, and while Khujand was more than enough to guarantee their safety he couldn't threaten business people into selling or providing if they didn't want to.

It was still the late afternoon by the time they had arrived, and the sun was still a good amount of time away from even beginning to set. The Horde commander had ordered the construction of defensive walls around the settlement, though only the first wooden pillars had been raised so far. Given that the settlement received twenty-four hour activity both from heroes passing through and local clansmen seeking shelter, there was never a time when it was undefended, even in the dead of night. Like all of the locations garrisoned by either the Horde or the Alliance, it was growing at a rapid and surprisingly organized rate and it reminded Khujand of Thunder Pass on the very first day he had arrived.

While crude, Beastwatch was fully functional, with many of the structures merely posts with tarps pulled over the top which provided effective protection from the elements. The area was pounded flat and paved with stones, shaped well enough that any water would run off to the ditches and retention ponds nearby. Like so many settlements on draenor, two edges of the settlement were against a relatively straight rocky wall of a hill, forcing would be attackers to congregate at two bottlenecks were they to try to assault the town. The people altogether seemed upbeat and energetic, unaffected by the dangers lurking beyond the town's defenses.

The commander, an ageing orc Far Seer who was surprisingly welcoming to the Alliance members bearing neutrality passes he had sent to them in Highpass through the Kirin Tor, agreed to Yaromira's suggestion and had sent several grunts to confiscate their weapons and carefully place them in the possession of the local flight master. Khujand couldn't help but marvel; at Thunder Pass, there's no way he could have gotten a group of Alliance past the front gates without a fight, much less into the tent of the local commander.

Negotiating flying mounts for six people in one evening - especially taxing considering that both Cecilia and Kiul would need large mounts due to their weight - was a long task of haggling which the group gladly left to Yaromira and Vegnus but listened to intently. Flight masters could not set loose more mounts than they received, and the size, weight and speed of each mount was a matter to be considered. They had all preferred to fly out at roughly the same time to be safe, and while there was an entire hive of the intimidating insectoid mounts buzzing on the side of the large rocky hill Beastwatch was situated against, it would be a few hours before the four medium sized mounts and two large mounts the group needed would be available, and even then they would all leave in two waves about half an hour apart each. Khujand wasn't sure if his hearthstone would function nor was he sure that the flight path over the Iron Siege Works was yet safe, but given that he would turn in his quest very soon he could afford to wait at the local inn for a few days if need be.

Having booked the flights, said their goodbyes to the talbuk as they checked it in with the local quartermaster, and left their weapons and gear safely with the flight master and his attendants - all local Laughing Skull orcs who had no qualms with this 'Alliance' from another planet - the group now had a few hours to kill, during which time Khujand would need to stay as chaperone. Although they had the legal right as contractors for a neutral postal service to reside in the settlement with their passes, that wouldn't necessarily stop the now unarmed group from being harassed by Azerothians with literal axes to grind.

In truth, he would have preferred to have just turned his quest in, said his goodbyes and tried to hearth out. Despite having succeeded in temporarily repressing his negative emotions, he wanted to find a quiet place to sulk and lick his wounds before trying to get on with his life. This group helped him so much, however, that he couldn't just abandon them now.

"Laddie," Vegnus started in Common without noticing the distrusting stares from bypassers, "ye won't get out of here without the rest of us buying ye a meal. It's the least we could do."

"I feel like I owe ya all, actually," the slightly uplifted troll answered. "I woulda been stranded out there without ya help - I gotta admit that I don't know how ta take care of myself in tha wild."

"It was good for all of us, actually," insisted Yaromira as she moved forward and tried to usher Khujand toward a locally run cookery. "The water you brought really lasted, and when traveling rarities like spices and olive oil are almost as valuable as silver. You helped us last night, too!"

"You helped us kick quite a few asses," Irien chimed while pinching his arm, "so shut up and take our money. Which we will use to buy food."

Outnumbered, the flattered jungle troll followed them into the local foodseller, a Laughing Skull denmother directing various family members as they prepared meat and vegetable stew in large quantities. The 'restaurant' was composed of ribs from a rather large animal pounded into the soil and holding up an impossible large animal skin tarp, and was open on two sides with the other two sides walled off by more tarps. The seating was on cushions on the floor, and each eating area had a five-foot tall wood partition that provided cover once patrons were actually sitting. Not wanting to cause further embarrassment to himself or further discomfort to Cecilia, Khujand went to order the food with Anushka while everyone else seated themselves, the bouncing draenei eager to show off her near-native speaker Orcish. Upon returning to the seating area, he spied the arrangement first: starting from the right seated counter-clockwise was Cecilia, Irien, Vegnus, Yaromira and Kiul. Before Anushka had a chance to bounce any further, her large Darkspear protector squeezed by and sat next to Kiul, leaving Anushka to sit next to the large Kaldorei's side and avoid any more potential awkwardness.

Once the stew had arrived, the group was able to unwind and finally rest their tired feet and backs. The chat was surprisingly relaxing and jovial, all seven of them there joking and laughing as they thought of what Sandash might be doing at that moment. Never in Khujand's life had he thought he would be sitting in the middle of a Horde settlement speaking in Common with a group of Alliance members he now viewed as close friends; and yet, there he was. It felt nice, and any glares from Horde heroes from Azeroth were met with looks twice as dirty from the protective troll. The establishment wasn't particularly crowded, and even once the stew was finished they seemed content to laze about in their partitioned area, ordering light drinks and bread as they waited for their flight times to arrive.

Remembering that there were people with a non-life threatening but still irritating illness, Khujand speechlessly rose to one knee with wide eyes. "Guys, I forgot about tha podlin' samples," he hissed at himself sorely as he pulled the enchanted jar from his travel bag - unlike his companions, he was not an outsider and was allowed to carry whatever he wanted in the settlement. "I gotta turn this in ta those druids at tha healer's tent!"

Everyone nodded - except for Vegnus who tutted in mock disapproval - as he left his travel bag there with them, carrying only his weapons and the jar. Despite willing himself not to look in the direction of the night elves and risk some other social gaffe - he no longer trusted himself entirely - he could have sworn he saw the two of them exchanging words with one another.

Exiting the covered cookery, Khujand hadn't made it more than two steps before the jar was snatched from his grasp.

"The runes on this thing are fascinating," Irien mumbled as she examined her stolen enchanted jar, walking next to him casually as though she hadn't just grabbed the entire reason he had even come to Gorgrond in the first place.

"Be careful with that!" he exclaimed despite the mini-heart attack she had just given him. He resisted the urge to grab it back, not wanting to knock it out of her hands.

Irien chatted away about jars and druids and every topic under the sun as they followed the directions of a tatooed human barbarian wearing the trappings of orcs in their search for the healer's tent. For the first time, she almost seemed to have run out of things to say and was forcing herself to talk about anything and everything. It came off as fake and rehearsed, but Khujand was grateful for her constant attempts to cheer him up and did his best to respond.

After making a few wrong turns on the dirt paths within Beastwatch, they finally stood in front of a small thatched hut with various totems and amulets hanging from the straw awning. It was situated at the very far east end of the settlement, and while there was no defensive wall around it there was a natural wall of near impenetrable jungle undergrowth surrounding it on two sides.

"Here we are," he said absentmindedly as he took in his surroundings. He jumped slightly when he felt the enchanted jar full of podling juice shoved into his hands.

"Alright, I need to go take a piss," Irien crassly said with a wave of her hand. "I'll try to find you when you're done."

Once he was done grimacing, Khujand ignored the fact that she was walking back from where they came and pushed through the long beads covering the hut's entrance. It reminded him of the witch doctor huts from his childhood, with the bubbling cauldron and various trinkets and potions lining the shelves.

A relatively young pandaren man wearing a cheap-looking light brown robe was sitting right in the middle of the hut with empty hands, looking very bored and as thoug he had been waiting for someone to just come in and talk to him. A nondescript brown-furred tauren sat with his back to the door, mixing something on a small table.

"That's the jar our last messenger left with when he went to Frostfire," the pandaren said while pointed at the object in Khujand's hands. "Nobody was willing to take the samples from such dangerous creatures for a non-life threatening illness. Did you...?"

Khujand nodded as he offered the jar. "Yeah, I filled tha whole thing, mang," the jungle troll sighed in a satisfied manner, finally fulfilling the quest that had brought him to Gorgrond in the first place. As the tauren turned around, the pandaren pulled up two extra chairs.

"Please tell us what you observed from the infected ones," he asked as he sat down. "Any detail that might seem unimportant could be significant for our work."

* * *

Khujand backed out of the healer's hut, leaving the two to their work as his hands suddenly felt very empty. He had refused the meagre sum the tauren druid had offered him, figuring that if they could only give so little then the only medical care workers in the settlement probably needed the money more than him. That they didn't fight when he gave them the money back only further confirmed his suspicion.

As he stood and examined some curious skulls hanging from a rope tied to the awning, Khujand wondered what he would do next. The rest of the group was at the restaurant, and they might still need the protection of a member of the Horde until they left. That they had helped him so much - saved him from starving in the wilds, really - made the prospect of leaving before they did seem so rude as to be out of the realm of possibility.

Perhaps he could just return to the restaurant, sit next to Kiul and avoid eye contact with Cecilia by pretending to still be tired and lying down in the partitioned eating area. He still felt guilty about projecting his feelings onto her and even guiltier about how hard it was for his brain to convince his heart that even if she had clearly been attracted to him, she wasn't interested in pursuing anything beyond those four nights.

He looked to the sky above, waiting for his inner voice - his constant companion and critic - to tell him what to do. It had been gone all day, but surely it's advice would be quick in coming. His head was usually a cacophony of noise as his subconscious constantly butted into his conscious.

And yet...nothing. There was only a single voice in his head - the normal, awkward voice of Khujand's own confused self.

"Where are you..." he asked, searching for some sort of a hand to guide him along. Everything he had done and felt seemed wrong, and despite the fact that he had just helped two people associated with the Cenarion Circle possible cure a new disease, he couldn't help but feel the same emptiness that had plagued him up until five days ago.

His heart rate increased as Khujand braced himself for the unknown. Cecilia's thorium boots clinked as she walked up behind him, and it was obvious that she intended for him to hear her approaching. He spun around, finding no reason to delay the inevitable.

And there she stood, every bit as gorgeous, every bit as confident as she had been last night. Khujand faltered; he was already feeling the sense of something that had once been so beautiful and pure spoilt by his foolish dreams.

"Hey," he muttered, trying to sound as friendly as possible despite his inability to smile.

She lingered for a moment, standing with her hands at her sides as she kept her feelings as guarded as she could. "Hey."

And there they stood, neither of them quite knowing what to do or what to say. She finally took the lead.

"We need to talk," she said plainly, motioning to a beaten path outside of the settlement's developed area. Several large palm trees had fronds which hung quite low, creating a small, intimate space that he would absolutely dread following her into at that moment.

He gulped visibly. "It ain't time ta say goodbye yet," he said in that weary voice of his. "Ya all still got a few hours here."

She lifted one of her heels off the ground, widdling the toe of her boot into the soil. "Please."

Licking the inside of his cheek, he relented; he felt that whatever she asked of him, he had no right to refuse, even if it would hurt. He was the cause of her discomfort and the ruination of what could have been a nice, four-night tryst that would have been over and done with on a high note were it not for his idiocy.

She led and he followed, walking silently for two minutes or so until they reached the small, dark clearing created by the palm trees once they had reached the spot. He marveled at the soft, grassy soil somehow growing without access to the sunlight, ducking under one of the fronds that she held up for him as the two slipped into the greenery and out of sight of nonexistent passersby. Preparing himself to freeze his own heart until he could pretend he felt nothing, Khujand breathed slowly and repeated inside himself that they would bid each other farewell and he would take the positive experience of sharing the secret of his crimes and push everything else into the back of his memory where it belonged.

It was cool underneath the protection of the gathering of palm trees, and the space was not so dark that he was blinded nor too light for her to see. He hung with his back against one of the fronds, keeping a few feet of space between them. His nervousness pushed him to start the talk, wanting to take whatever wounds she would inflict and be done with it.

"Thank ya, Cecilia," he said with a sincere look nobody could have faked. "For everythin'. I don't know how, but what ya said about sharin'...it was prophetic. Ya helped me more than I coulda imagined."

She tilted her head to the side only slightly, a half-smile spreading across her face. "You too. You told your story in fewer nights than I did, but to know there is someone else out there who does feel remorse, and knows what it's like...to know what happened to you after Warsong..."

She reached up to pinch the raptor feathers tied to his armband again until he pretended to shrug at an itch, fearing what her touch might reignite just when he thought he was beginning to successfully repress his feelings and shove everything down. Her hand lingered as she gave him a knowing look, but she didn't push him quite yet.

"We both traveled our separate roads, but to find you again out here, by nothing but the hand of fate...to know where life took you...thank you. Thank you so much." She leaned her head forward slightly as she spoke, and he knew she was trying her best to soothe his troubled mind. It was touching, he thought, but a wasted effort on someone as undeserving as him.

"Well..." he began before trailing off with a lost expression on his face. She leaned forward with only her head again as if encouraging him to continue, not giving his awkwardness a moment's respite as she locked onto his eyes. "I guess soon, we gonna travel those separate roads again. I hope that our discussions..."

He stopped as soon as he saw her lips part, a small, futile part of his selfish mind still holding out hope.

"About last night..." she started contritely, though his fear was quicker than her speech.

Just as quickly as his idiocy had pumped that hope into his head, his reason drained it out, forcing him to speed up the inevitable severing of a connection he realized could never be. "Ya don't gotta say anythin', Cecilia," he sighed regretfully. "I was just bein' my immature self, sayin' stupid things-"

"It wasn't stupid," she interrupted with that self-assured, lecturing tone. "It wasn't stupid. It was beautiful and sincere. Khujand-"

"That's a kind thing ta say, but-"

"Let me finish."

"Ya don't gotta say nothin', and I'm sorry for mopin' around all day-"

"Let me finish."

"It's alright, I just got my own self wound up, don't worry about it-"

"Let me finish."

He pursed his lips, his sad frustration apparent, but he remained silent as well.

"It was beautiful and touching," she explained with a look on her face so reassuring and understanding that he felt even more unworthy, even more exploitative of her kindness; but he didn't interrupt.

"But it was overwhelming, too. I'm so happy you were the first one to speak, but it just came off a little strong when I wasn't expecting it yet. I knew we would have time on this last day in Beastwatch and I expected us to just continue enjoying our meeting again without delving into the future until we arrived here. When you told me out loud what I already knew you felt inside, it was just so sudden, and I was so afraid-"

His ignorant lack of patience got the better of him. "Don't apologize. Don't feel bad. Ya don't owe me a thing, and ya ain't obligated ta return tha feelin's of every inarticulate oaf that fawns over-"

"You think I don't feel the same?" she asked incredulously, a combination of irritation and dismay on her face. "Are you that dense when it comes to reading signals? Stalking you so we could dance in a moonlit wellspring? Leading you on a chase through a meadow under the stars? Pouring my heart out to you across four days?"

Neither of them were raising their voices, but the exchange became more quick now, more heated on both ends. "Infatuation don't mean ya gotta want anythin' more, and ya ain't obligated ta pursue anythin' with me if ya don't-"

"Obligation? Are you...serious?"

Her frustration broke through as she cut him off, and he realized that she had expected a much different conversation. She seemed to have expected him to throw his arms around her, to cry out in joy, to whisper fluffiness about how they would ride off into the sunset together. His guilt was overwhelming; her rejection the night before had knocked some sense into his head, and if she was now entertaining such futile idealism, it could only mean that she was unjustly afflicted with his own immature fantasies he had impressed upon her.

Before he could explain how wrong he was, she continued with more frustration in her voice.

"Was I obligated to share anything with you beyond our initial stories about our war crimes? I could have stopped bleeding my entire life story on you, stopped opening up to you about everything I've felt including a lot of things I'm ashamed of, halfway through that first night. I could have blown you off after we got jumped by that plant...monster...thing."

"I ain't got social skills, even less than ya got yaself," he answered right back as he fought the confusion swirling around him after having tried to hard to believe that she had never been interested in him. "But I do know when I screwed up and projected my own feelin-"

"You didn't project - argh, by the night, do you even realize that I was about to kiss you just before that plant monster attacked, you blithering idiot?"

"I suspected it, but ya didn't, and ya weren't obliga-"

"I swear to God, don't you say that word again," she said with a firm, untrembling finger in his face but an expression that was more hurt than annoyed. Yes, he had hurt her, after she had helped him so much. The self-loathing rolled back in.

"I could tell ya were attracted, alright? But two people can fancy each other without wantin' ta be together." This time, he wasn't merely trying to convince himself; the crushing shame in his chest over having affected her urged him to snap her out of it. "Ya got reasons ta be afraid, and they're good reasons. This is war, Cici. We both involved in a war. We travelin' around some other planet tryin' ta fight for our world. We could get killed any day now, and even if we survive, we could get transferred or lost. Two people on tha move, not even knowin' if tha lines of communication could be opened-"

"I defend the postal roads!" she interrupted with incensed determination, her attempt to convince him very clear. "My job is to keep the lines of communication-"

"Let me finish," he replied.

Her nostrils were flaring as she frowned up at him now, a look of sincere pain on her face. Right at that moment, it dawned on him: she had expected this to be a makeup conversation. She must have assumed he would be relieved that what he had thought was rejection was only apprehension, that everything was alright, that she wanted them to be together. That he was now trying to walk away appeared to hit her like a freight train, and as much as he thought it was necessary to save both of them from what would only end in heartache, it didn't stop him from hating himself just a little more.

"Why are you trying so hard to convince yourself you were wrong the whole time?" she asked with a lost, confused tone, her voice much less strong than it had been just a few seconds before.

"Cause I was dumb before, Cici. I was my old dumb, childish self, chasin' after a dream that wasn't meant ta-"

"Believing in fate means you acknowledge that you can't predict it."

"Let me finish!" he exclaimed, his confidence in what he was saying collapsing, his instability obvious to them both. "How _stupid_ was I ta think anythin' could ever come of this? Ta think four nights in Gorgrond alone, in a land where we could fly ta one place, get stuck in another, end up writin' unanswered letters ta an empty mailbox for months at a time-"

"It is _not_ just four days," she stated, her own voice wavering. "Don't pretend that's all it is. You sit here convincing yourself that you want to live your life in fear of what could, might happen, and I know you - I know it didn't work for you seven and a half years ago!"

He leaned back, the fronds ruffling behind him as he reeled from the blow below the belt, a look of utter shock on his face. "Don't," he whispered in a defeated tone despite knowing she already did. "Please, don't open that wound."

"No matter how childish it seems, I wanted...I wanted so badly to take you with me that night, and set you free as well," she whispered right back; there were no tears, but she was as close to breaking as he had ever seen her. "You didn't have to say anything. I knew you hated what you had done as much as I did, and you knew that I knew. We looked into each other-"

"How would ya have taken me anywhere?" he asked through his hurt, the cut inside his heart bleeding again. "Ta Durotar, where my people would kill ya? Ta Ashenvale, where ya people would kill me? How did ya even know I wasn't some monster-"

"I _knew_," she hissed through clenched teeth as her cheeks darkened from her frustration with him. "And you _knew_. You looked right into me like I did you, and we both felt it. Don't claim we didn't know!"

"Ya right," he sighed. "I knew. And I know now that ya couldn't have done anythin' other than ran back ta ya own life, just like ya gotta run back now. Washyu expect we gonna do? Even if we survive this war - we gonna go back ta a world that thinks we gotta be on opposite sides cause of tha races we were born as? We gonna run off inta tha sunset and hope that we can live our lives hidin' from all tha politics and conflict? No. Ya gonna go ya way, and I'm gonna go mine, and we're both just gonna be a fond memory for each other, voices in tha middle of tha night," he managed to choke out despite the creaking muscles in his face. "This is real life Cici, not-"

"Now isn't the same as back then!" she shouted in a low voice as she stepped forward. Before he could react, she grabbed his wrist the same way she had at Mor'shan, ensuring that he wouldn't try to exit the safety of the natural, frond-covered room created by the low-hanging palm trees. The fire shot through him again, its heat neither burning nor managing to soothe his frantic mind.

"We aren't fighting on opposite sides anymore, and we aren't beholden to subfactions controlling our movements. Did you learn nothing, nothing at all from what I told you the night before last? Did your thick head understand nothing of _how_ I started to become free, to find that peace? Of _how_ I had to make my own place in the world? Didn't you see the symbolism in our chase, and when I stood on that hill in the valley - just like that hill at Mor'shan-"

"Stop," he whispered with his barely audible, tormented voice as he turned away from her. "Please stop, this is too much. I can't take this."

"Don't walk away now," she said as she snaked her neck around in attempt to catch the crestfallen man's attention again. "Yes, you went your way, and I went mine, and it was all we could do back then. But we have choices now - I own property, property in a neutral territory back-"

"So washyu gonna do, then? Hide me in ya house from a world that tells us we can't be together? Even if we did somehow make it back ta Azeroth, we'd only be ripped apart again," he interjected, his eyes wet as her faded silvers somehow penetrated his gaze with a light that still seemed to shine to him. "I'm so afraid, afraid we gonna try this and get attached-"

"Stop overanalyzing and...focusing on what could, maybe, might happen in the future! Just feel!" she said, her own lip quivering slightly. "Don't live your life running from whatever scares you, you will never start with that clean slate! You will never find peace! I know!"

"If we get attached and then we cut off, by tha horrors of war or tha politics of our peoples, I know I ain't never gonna recover."

"If we walk away again like we did all those years ago," she said with her own voice breaking, "just say goodbye and watch each other leave, when we know we have the _choice_ now, will we recover? When we're so close, when things are so much easier now?"

"Ya can recover, and that's all that matters ta me," he sighed as he closed his eyes and slumped down, the resistance and fight in his voice waning much more quickly than hers. "I'm gonna get hurt, but that's fine as long as ya okay. Ya strong, so much stronger than me. Ya can move on-"

"You're _wrong_. I'm strong, but not that strong, and I won't recover. We won't, because we know that what we shared that night at Mor'shan was real, and what we shared these past four nights is real, and nothing is in our way except ourselves."

They stopped, panting as they both sought in vain to control everything swelling up inside. Both of them stood, his hands at his sides, her hand still gripping his wrist to prevent him from giving in to fear, as they tried to collect thoughts scattered much too far apart. He only opened his eyes when he heard the clink of her helmet hitting the soft soil.

"Tell me you can walk away," she whispered with no less strain in her voice than before. She removed the violet-blue scrunchie from her ponytail and wrapped it around her wrist again as she undid the metal hair clips.

He merely watched, unable to express his confusion at her actions. She tossed her hair back and ruffled it with her hand, its color now changed but its messy style just like she had stood before him almost eight years ago. Retaining her grip on his wrist, she reached up with her free hand and gently ran it along his cheek, and he knew she was trying to get through that thick skull of his.

"Look me in the eye the way you did that night and then tell me you can still walk away, and I won't follow. If you can share with me now what you shared with me the moment you set me free and tell me you still want us to part ways, then I promise I won't search for you until past the ever after. I'll be just a voice in the wind."

Khujand had already shut his eyes again before she had finished the sentence, having nowehere else to run to. This wasn't how he had planned or even expected the conversation to go. She was supposed to apologize for having rejected him the other night, and he was supposed to tell her not to and to blame his own delusions. It was supposed to be quick and easy, and then he could run away and pretend he didn't have feelings. She wasn't supposed to have actually felt the same. What he thought they had shared wasn't supposed to have been real.

He clenched down into his very core and released, relenting as he stared into those same eyes. The shine was gone but they were still hers, and everything flowed back the same way it had that night. Everything they felt all those years ago, everything they felt across the past four nights, both aware that the other felt it too.

That tired, burnt out jungle troll stared right into the soul of that fallen, dying night elf and they both realized they were staring into a reflection. Hurt. Hate. Pain. Shame. Guilt. Despair. Two hearts weary with regret to the point of almost wishing they would beat no longer. The regrets over so many people they had harmed, so many families they had destroyed, so many choices they had trapped themselves with all swept in and they knew at that moment - in a way that could not be denied to them - that they felt exactly the same. About their crimes. About their peace. About each other. Everything was the same, and they realized it at the same time.

He took her by the arm as she was still stroking his cheek and pulled her close, and a kiss that had waited for nearly eight years came to life, a fire shooting into them both in a way neither of them had ever felt from anyone else. He felt how strongly she reacted in the same way he did, the way she melted at the same moment he did, the way her body shook as it pressed against him. Everything that he had tried to pretend had been a figment of his imagination or a fleeting infatuation sprung up from his heart, its reality burning as hot as her tongue sliding into his mouth as she tilted and leaned back, his free hand running through her hair and cradling her head to hold her to him.

They were both so lit up that they hadn't noticed how far over they were leaning, and he had practically swept her off her feet at that point as she turned as malleable as a sculptor's clay in his long, strong arms. His knees gave out if only for a split second and they fell into a panting heap in the grass, the force of hitting the ground lightly jolting both of them as he lied halfway over her.

As they caught their breath, both of them slowly locked on to each others' eyes as they began to pull back into reality, sharing a self-depricating laugh as they marveled at their condition. A single kiss literally knocked them both off of their feet, brushing away all logical coherence as they felt the connection they both now knew could never be severed. Only one moment, and there was no going back.

Khujand began to push off the ground with his hand after a time longer than either could remember, but Cecilia looped her hand underneath his arm and gripped the back of his shoulder, neither pulling him down to her nor letting him sit up. Following her lead, he hovered there, the two of them staring into their living reflections for more than a few minutes as they panted and occasionally laughed like fools without knowing or caring why.

He leaned over onto his elbow, sliding the palm of his hand onto hers as he looked down at her lying comfortably in the grass, hair just a shade darker than his skin splayed all around her head. And just like that, they had release; the pain the two war criminals shared for their past sins was still inside, but the fear of being attached to one another was gone, cured away by that one sweet choice.

"What did you do..." she asked with that breathy voice that really did sound like the wind. Her face revealed a combination of relief and giddy awe, though he could tell she knew the answer to her question.

"Stopped thinkin' for a moment...and just felt..." he rumbled back at her with a sudden relaxation in his voice that almost sounded foreign despite being so real.

He pulled her up into a sitting position with him and held her close, combing her hair down with his palm as he tried and failed to ask a thousand questions about the future floating in his head, each one melting away as the worry and apprehension left him. There was no need to ask, at least at that moment; the way she looked at him now that they finally had each other, with such a calm peace in her eyes, was more than enough for his mind to finally rest.

They sat as she huddled close to what was not merely his warmth but practically heat as she leaned into his arms, tugging at his belt so surreptitiously that he hadn't even noticed until she removed his knife.

"Whashyu doin' with that?" he asked not so much with fear as with an excited anticipation.

She suddenly had a very saucy expression on her face. "Something Sonja told me about your people," she practically purred as she slipped her arms away from his chest.

Cecilia looped her arms underneath his, pressing her bosom right against him as her forehead was hovering inches from his chin, stoking the flames already. Khujand only hugged around her shoulders, nearly paralyzed in pleasant shock as he realized his elf was about to do something very trollish.

She reached with her free hand and grasped the long scarlet braid at the end of his mane and wrapped it around her fist. With her other hand, she held the knife above the very beginning of the braid, holding its serrated edge completely still. His blood was already pumping so fiercly that he almost couldn't hear her heavy breathing.

She pulled down on his braid and exposed his thick neck as his head tilted up, admiring the way the two muscles on both sides met the top of his chest at his collar bone. As he felt her spying the indentation at the meeting point, she leaned in, pressing her nose and lips into his hot, smooth hide, twisting and tilting her head as he squirmed underneath her kiss. He clasped at the back of her body armor as she continued to underhook his arms and immolate his neck, making them both hot and bothered in a way neither of them knew possible. He couldn't stand the torture and - as he was supposed to - he tilted his head back down and defended his neck from her passionate assault with his chin. In the process, his braid slid up against his own knife as she held it steady at the back of his head and was sliced clean off. She released him finally, slipping his knife back into its belt sheathe tartishly as she removed her piece of him.

"And now you smell like sandalwood," the Kaldorei woman purred again, seeming quiet proud that she had rubbed her scent all over the Darkspear man.

Stupefied, he watched as she reached behind her ears and displayed her thousands of years of experience doing her own hair, nimbly tying his braid at the end so it wouldn't unravel and then weaving it into her fine locks, braiding it all together in under thirty seconds. The dark azure with a slight grey tint to the roots bore a vibrant scarlet streak, a part of him now a part of her.

They sat there on their knees, him staring in awe as she stuck her fingers down into the neck guard of her armor, pulling up a chained and beaded necklace he hadn't seen before. It was adorned with sixteen teeth and claws from what he assumed were previous hunts, each one of them quite ancient looking.

"I began collecting these when women became the fighters at the start of the Long Vigil," she whispered in that husky voice, her satisfied eyes still fixated on his neck. "I only kept mementos of my most difficult, challening hunts. Ten _thousand_ years of my life, my entire being, all on this necklace."

She maneuvered her braided hair down through the loop and pulled it up over her chin first, then back over her long ears. Blushing at the honor he knew the warrior goddess - _his_ warrior goddess - was bestowing on him, he leaned forward as she slipped it over his long ears and settled it snugly down onto his neck.

"We will trust in fate," she whispered as she clawed at his chest, attempting to slip her fingers underneath the leather strap running diagonally across his torso.

"We will let go of fear. We will be honest with what we feel. And we will make this work."

Cecilia leaned back, tugging on Khujand's chest strap and the back of his shoulder again, her voice even more hushed. Relaxing his normally scattered brain, he acquiesed and allowed her to pull him in close as he pressed his forehead to hers.

"When we meet again...I will tell you each one of those sixteen stories. And I promise that we _will_ be together again, no matter what."

* * *

The sun was setting now, and there was only a quarter of an hour left before the first four of the group of six would have to fly out to Highpass. There were more travelers who had reserved the insectoid mounts native to Gorgrond at various time slots and once it came time to take their turn, they couldn't delay for long lest their spot be given to someone else.

Khujand's travel pack was kept safe with Vegnus, and Irien and Anushka began wandering around the healer's shack where the local druids mentioned having seen her tall friend disappear shortly after she had left herself. Anushka had completely reverted to her old self, prancing around frantically as she fretted over the possibility of not finding Cecilia in time, and even Irien was muttering to herself about her friend having taken way too long for the makeup kiss she had helped Cecilia plan since the morning.

The exhausted couple had almost finished helping each other get dressed before they lied down in the grass again, their bare feet poking out from under the outer ring of palm fronds while engaging in pillow talk without pillows. Neither of them were prepared for the heard but unseen sharpshooter's hoots and hollers.

"Wooooot! Cici!" Irien cat called toward the naturally formed greenhouse, jolting them both. "Save some for the rest of us!"

Both of their eyes grew wide as they realized their dark room at been discovered. "Wha - Irien!" shrieked Cecilia, fatigue preventing her from blushing by that stage. "You were supposed to wait at the restaurant!"

Khujand tried his best to help her with the final leather straps on her boots, hoping that if she could step out first then she would prevent Irien from behaving even more rashly. He halfway expected their boisterous, loudmouthed friend to jump in there with them.

Irien remained standing outside, but continued her teasing. "That was an hour and a half ago! You told me you just needed a quick distraction for a makeup kiss!"

"Miss Irien, this is their intrusionism on their privacy, must to go!" Anushka pleaded in vain as Khujand heard her stumbling to her feet and scuffing the soil with her hooves just beyond the palm fronds. She sounded like she was trying to pull Irien away.

Irien did her best to imitate Cecilia's husky, almost naturally sultry voice, but ended up sounding like a buffoon instead. "Hey Darkspear, toss me your dark spear!"

"What?!" Cecilia exclaimed as she finally snapped her helmet into place with Khujand's help; he imagined that her ears would have darkened to the tips were she not as visibly worn out as him. "That doesn't even make sense, his complexion isn't any darker than mine!"

"So you admit it, then!"

Despite nearly dying of both embarrassment and laughter, Khujand had managed to slip on his two-toed boots in record time and stood to massage the back of Cecilia's neck in an attempt to calm her down.

"Irien's just searchin' for a reaction," he attempted to soothe her. "Ignore it, she can't spoil tha mood unless we let her."

Sounding contrite, Irien tapped her claw-like fingernails on the outer palm fronds without intruding. "I'm sorry Cici, I'm just excited for you. BFF, mmkay?"

Khujand hid behind Cecilia as they exited into the reddening light of the early evening, slouching down and using the back of her head and hair to cover his face. Although he could practically hear Irien grinning and Anushka blushing enough for all of them, they thankfully allowed him a moment's respite as all four of them walked through the undergrowth back to the dirt road at the far end of the settlement. From the corner of his eye, he could see that Irien had pinned Anushka's arms behind her back and was using her as a living shield, though he also heard that familiar snort of Cecilia trying and failing to stifle a smile despite her natural irritability.

Once Irien realized that her elder Kaldorei wasn't really going to beat her up over the comment, she released the once-again hyperventilating draenei and spent a few minutes trying to calm her hooved friend down. Eventually, the group fell silent and Khujand had the courage to unentangle himself from Cecilia's hair and pretend - in front of the two intruders, at least - like nothing had happened.

Strolling through town as evening fell, Khujand began to feel even more lightheaded. As comfortable as he felt, he hadn't been with a woman in over six years, and even then Cecilia was only his fifth. Even in a neutral zone he wouldn't have known how much or how little to touch her hand or look at her face when casually walking toward the flight terrace, and the fact that they were in a settlement full of members of his faction who could spread rumors or cause trouble for him was disconcerting. Once he mustered up the courage to at least show his face in front of Irien, he resigned himself to walking side-by-side with Cecilia as the two tallest people in the group and was relieved when she seemed resigned to simply brushing the top of her hand against his every so often.

The rest of the group were waiting at the lower reception area of the flight point, which was formed by another tarp held up by giant animal bones covering a desk full of schedules and maps. The flight master - who was apparently called 'Grinslicer' according to Anushka - was chatting with Yaromira and Kiul while Vegnus, shouldering Khujand's travel bag, was smoking a cigarette next to everyone else's travel gear. They all looked up somewhat bashfully when the group approached, and even the normally outlandish dwarf kept his sense of humor in check despite eyeing the jungle troll and the night elf standing a bit closer to each other than everyone else.

"Took your time going that stroll through town, yes?" Yaromira asked Cecilia while looking to Khujand and back. The warrior only nodded demurely, and Khujand was happy to follow her cue on how to properly behave in front of others.

Stomping on his spent coffin nail, Vegnus sauntered over and handed Khujand his travel pack as he spoke. "Let's make this quick, then," he started in a cheery tone. "It's about time and there's no reason te sulk. We can get one of the big ones now, and another big one after fifteen minutes."

Kiul understood the look Vegnus had shot him and stepped in. "I can go first; Yara, Anushka, Vegnus and myself can be the first four," he said in that calm voice that made him sound like some sort of counselor or clergyman. He eyed Khujand and Cecilia knowingly before finishing. "Perhaps the two of you and Irien need some time."

While he normally would have been the first to extend his hand, Kiul's comment left Khujand's awkward self feeling a bit exposed and Vegnus jumped forward.

"I can talk te the Alliance authorities in Highpass for ye," he said in an almost excited tone as he grabbed Khujand's hand. "If ye willing te help us link the good men and women fighting the Iron Horde, I could probably negotiate a similar neutrality pass that we have here. And of course, ye would always be welcome te meet us here if ye can find a way te make it through to Gorgrond."

"Thanks, Vegnus," the flattered troll answered. "I don't know what's gonna happen with tha flight path across tha border, or our ability ta communicate...but whatever I can do..."

His voice trailed off once he noticed the dwarf rummaging through his pocket. Pulling out a large sealed envelope, he passed it to Khujand, his finger held on a symbol that was neither Horde nor Alliance.

"I was waiting for ye te say that," he burst out with a smile. "This here is the symbol of the Kirin Tor. While they don't want any business connections with our employer, they believe in cross-factional communication and lent us their seal. This is written in Orcish and is subtle enough that a post master would recognize it as an invitation for routing mail through Beastwatch te Thunder Pass and the rest of Frostfire regardless of faction."

The jungle troll understood immediately. "He's gonna receive it as soon as I get back."

"It's time," Grinslicer interjected in Orcish. "We have three medium and one large mount ready; four of you will need to go now or leave their spots for other people. The last medium and large will be ready in fifteen minutes, as promised."

Yaromira nodded to the flight master and turned back to the others. The goodbyes were quick and professional, with the exception of Anushka who hugged Cecilia and Irien tightly. She turned to Khujand and he noticed her gaze dart down to his waist for a split second before shooting back up to his face in embarrassment of 'the seeings.' He extended his hand, much preferring the distance it would allow, only to have his personal space invaded again as she gave him a quick hug and banged his shoulder pauldron with one of her horns. He distinctly noticed Irien pinching a reluctant, slightly jealous-looking Cecilia as she watched Anushka dodge around his hand for the uncomfortable embrace.

The three helped the four attach their travel gear and surveying instruments to the large buzzing insects before saddling up, and Khujand stopped by his short friend-for-life one more time.

"Vegnus," he asked with some sense of urgency, "how old are ya?"

The youthful-looking dwarf chuckled as though he had heard the question a hundred times. "I'm thirty-one, laddie."

Khujand slapped his forehead. "Ya be a younglin' for ya people!"

"Even dwarves are born and grow up once!" Vegnus laughed as he punched the troll's shoulder. He leaned down from the flying mount for one last comment. "Ye know I gotta sneak ye in te Ironforge when we're back on Azeroth. At least once."

"Wouldn't miss it for tha world. And stop callin' me 'laddie,' laddie!"

* * *

Khujand tucked away his armor into his travel pack, squirming in the intense warmth of his winter clothes. Although he didn't quite know whether or not his hearthstone would still function, he needed to be prepared for the temperature in Frostfire Ridge in case it did.

He stood behind the reception area of the flight point now, an animal skin tarp to his back and an extremely close wall of banana trees to his front, providing a sort of natural dressing room as he finished securing his fur jacket. There was no mirror, and he had to ruffle up his mane solely by feeling with his hands as he prepared to squeeze through the trees and meet up with the two night elves again.

Securing his travel bag over his club and glaive, the apprehension returned to him with the sudden realization of the approaching goodbye.

The entire day had been such a whirlwind. He woke up nearly a day's travel away, rested despite his lack of sleep, sore from the gradually regenerating acid burn on his chest, and aching from what he knew was more than infatuation with a pair of eyes he now realized had been welcomingly haunting his dreams for years despite having repressed some of the details of that night at the ravine in Ashenvale. Mere hours ago he had prepared to strain his cardiovascular health by convincing himself that he was a rejected fool chasing a fantasy, and now he was trying to come to terms with the fact that - for the first time in a very long time - he truly felt happy.

Happy, but apprehensive. Letting go of fear meant exposing himself to risk. Gain brings the possibility of loss, he realized.

As he trotted out from behind the tarp, he looked up at the now dark sky, wondering if the two of them would ever be able to count the constellations together again. She was so confident, so sure, so strong; it felt like a role reversal for her to be his rock, to be the relationship's pillar of support, though given the society she grew up in it was probably normal for her.

As Khujand rounded the tarp, he was once again dumbstruck by the sight of Cecilia standing in the moonlight. Whether her armor was a goblin imitation of elven work or not, the way the bright silver gleamed under the moonlight was heavenly as she stood there, hand on her hip with her braided hair spilling over her shoulder, checking him out just as much as he was checking her. Although there was little activity in the settlement now that the sun had set, even the few people passing on the main road behind her were as invisible as Irien clutching her rifle while she sat cross legged on a wall of piled rocks to Cecilia's left. Nothing else mattered at that moment except the precious few minutes he would have left before what he expected to be a painful separation.

"Come here," Cecilia beckoned in Darnassian as she linked her fingertips with his and stepped forward, almost rubbing his chin with her helmet. Despite the cold thorium of her armor, the closeness made him somehow feel even warmer and he worried he would break out into a sweat.

Cecilia tried to sniff his chest and shoulder, still appearing quiet proud that she could smell herself on him. Not knowing socially appropriate behavior for couples in public, Khujand tilted his head down and inhaled both her scent and a bit of his own on her hair, not noticing the passing Laughing Skull mother that suddenly grabbed her children and turned to walk in the opposite direction of the flight point. Cecilia giggled like a teenager regardless, and looked up at him with those faded eyes that were even more beautiful to him as he studied the crystal blue pupils surrounding the source of her faint silver glow.

She stretched their hands out to the sides before lowering them down again. "You're the first man I've been with who's taller than me," she cooed affectionately as she stood on her tippy toes for a second.

"Ya tha first woman I've been with that I'm not afraid of crushin' when we together," he whispered down to her half-joking and half-serious. Though his happiness was loud and clear in his whole demeanor, he realized that his nervousness must have shown through when she shot him a concerned look.

"Trust in fate," she started, reading into his thoughts so well. "Very soon, the Iron Horde will shrink back in Thunder Pass, and the letter Vegnus gave you will help open the lines of communication for the war effort - and for us. You will finish your parole, I will finish paying off my half of the house with Irien, and then you and me will be free to live however we want."

Khujand sighed, his brain struggling with the concept of her truly feeling the same way but his heart knowing with certainty that she meant what she said. He bowed his head and looked at her sheepishly, realizing that she was going to be the leader in this relationship and that he felt perfectly fine with that.

"We gonna make this work," he repeated wearily but faithfully as she gave him a reassuring nod. "The moment I get word that tha flight path is open across tha border, I'll try ta get my first letters routed through Beastwatch on ta Highpass."

"We'll race to see who can send mail first," she joked, though for a split second he could sense the apprehension in her voice as well.

Grinslicer approached the couple as they continued to chat about mostly light subjects, his presence surprisingly undetected by the two while Irien rose to remind them.

"It's time," she said softly in Orcish with a pat to Cecilia's shoulder.

The three made their way up to the two flying mounts to load their travel gear. Irien almost seemed to pout as she finished saddling up her insectoid. She looked at Cecilia for a nod of approval before giving Khujand a warm, one-armed hug. Leaning her head up against his chest, Irien switched the conversation back to Darnassian and spoke up to him quietly though Cecilia's ears were as long and sensitive as theirs.

"If you ever break up with her, I will shove my gun inside your rectum and fill you with enough lead to down a rampaging gronn," she warned with an absolutely dead-serious expression on her face.

Khujand and Cecilia couldn't help but laugh, both of them mashing their shorter, unwilling friend in the middle of a group hug.

Grinslicer and his assistant were standing outside now, having taken the hint once the conversation switched to a language from an entirely different planet. That the non-Azerothians seemed to unconcerned with the sight of a night elf holding hands with a jungle troll was comforting for them both.

As they walked over to the larger insectoid that was to carry all seven-and-a-half-plus feet of armored Cecilia, her travel gear, her glaive and her shield, she pivoted around to face him. Grabbing him by the jacket, she ran her free hand through his mane one last time and scrached the hide of his scalp. After she opened her mouth but before she could speak, Khujand stole one last kiss, the moan she couldn't suppress spurring Irien to pretend gag.

Before they melted again, he released and waited until they caught their breath. "I'm gonna miss ya, even if it only takes a few days for tha mail route ta be opened."

"Me too," she answered with a sympathetic yet hopeful tilt of her head. "You'll see, Khujand. It will work out."

He held her hand as she saddled up despite the fact that she didn't need any help and took a few steps back as the insectoid wings began flapping for takeoff. She turned to him again as the two mounts rustled, gazing into his eyes one last time.

"It will work out!" she yipped with a confident smile.

He stood in the same spot as he watched the mounts leap into the air, gaining altitude with surprising speed as they buzzed over both the trees ringing the settlement as well as those sprouting up right in the middle of the town. The insectoids didn't move up particularly high, and the light from the stars kept them visible as they disappeared over the horizon.

The whole time, Cecilia crooked her head back, those two faded eyes somehow reflecting the moonlight and burning at him brightly even as she and Irien became two dots in the sky. There was pain, but nowhere near as much as he had expected after seeing the certainty on her face before she left.

A light shone until finally disappearing into the night sky and she was gone physically, despite Khujand hearing her voice, feeling her presence as he looked all around him.

Paying a tip to Grinslicer for having watched everyone's bags, Khujand moved over to where Irien had been sitting on a rock, out of the way of the dirt path leading up to the flight point reception area. Breathing deeply, he pinched himself to make sure it hadn't all been a dream.

"It will work out," he murmured to himself as he ignored the four-inch knubs jutting from his upper jaw and fingered the ten thousand years of history around his neck instead.

Four nights in Gorgrond. Just four short nights, and what had waited for nearly eight years came to life. He was worried, yes, but he also felt a confidence he hadn't known before. He could almost remember similarities between the crisp morning air in Gorgrond and in the Barrens already, trying to think positively as he imagined what it would feel like the next time he held Cecilia in his arms.

Removing the cracked hearthstone from his pack, he was delighted to see that the runes shone as brightly, if not slightly brighter, than when he had first salvaged it on his first day in Gorgrond. Placing his palm and focusing his energy, the familiar green swirls wrapped around him as his vision blurred.

The brown of the tree trunks melded into the brown of constructed walls, and he felt himself jolted across time-space as the hearthstone worked its magic.

Thanks to everyone who made it this far. I didn't make this note in bold so it wouldn't be as easy for people to scroll down without reading when I say just kidding they didn't really breakup, but they thought about it and the song helped me to write. One more chapter plus notes about the next few stories I have already written.


	25. Come See Me

Five of the six bunks were unoccupied in the large, square room of the bed and breakfast joint that morning. The curtains had been nailed to the wall in order to prevent any light from coming in, and they had remained in place for quite some time. A single blanket on the second largest of the bunks rose up and down slowly, though any observer would have known that the occupant was awake. A long, scarlet mane poked out from underneath the covers along with two long azure ears, and a massive, three-fingered hand reached out to scratch an itch on the man's temple. All the others had gone off to work that morning, and only the large Shadow Hunter with faintly glowing red eyes lingered for so long in bed.

Rising after much internal debate, the man stretched in his fur jacket and pants that he hadn't even bothered to take off the night before. Though he was well-rested, he appeared disheveled and disoriented as he finally rose from the bed and ambled over to the calendar on the wall.

It hung over a dresser with some writing utensils on top, and even with the curtain nailed to the wall, the red Xs in the day boxes were clear. With much hesitation, the big blue man picked up a red pencil and held it up to an empty box in the last week. There were twenty-seven red Xs in total. After what seemed like an eternity, the man drew the twenty-eighth, lingering for a moment as he leaned his forehead onto the wall and stared sideways at all the red marks before opening the door.

He paused before exiting, and simply stared at the floor in front of him. "What a fool I've been," he sighed heavily. It was only another minute before he was down the stairs and out into the morning sun.

* * *

It was another breezeless day in the settlement at Thunder Pass. The streets were busy that late morning as laborers and merchants went about their business, a few carts pulled by frostwolves carrying vegetables through the main square that never seemed large enough for the amount of traffic it saw. The flight master on the very far west edge of town - the original settler, the real founder of the town - had just received passengers hauling sacks of mail over their shoulders. The two riders appeared to be natives of Draenor yet were wearing crimson red Horde tabards with black trims in addition to their wrapped fur boots. How the orcs could deal with the extreme cold in Frostfire Ridge was something Khujand would never understand.

He sat on a rocking chair on the porch of what had now become the new mail sorting center of the town, his right leg propped up across his left knee. His fel glaive was lain across his thighs as he sharpened the blades at each end with a detached grinding wheel that looked quite small in his large, powerful hands. There was a small footstool in front of him with a half-eaten apple and half-drinken glass of milk from an animal whose identity he was better off not knowing. The jungle troll was wrapped in the same light-brown fur outfit he had bought three extra pairs of, everything covered save his head, hands and part of his neck. His eye-catchingly scarlet mohawk was combed up carefully, rising about half a foot from the top of his scalp. The very back of his hair had been chopped like his tusks, the scarlet braid that was once his now braided into the long, dark azure hair of the woman who had a talent for sweeping into his life just as quickly as she swept back out again. The thick necklace lined with ten thousand years worth of claws and teeth of hunted game clinked around his neck as he worked.

Leaning against the leg of the chair was a packed travel bag containing changes of clothes, bars of soap, stacks of napkins and plenty of hard rations. A waterskin was attached to the side. Every day, every single morning since he had returned to Thunder Pass, he would go through the ritual again, carefully collecting what he would need in the event that he would have to leave suddenly.

"Yeah, just a minute," said one of the orcs to the flight master as he ascended the steps of the porch. He carried a burlap sack of letters over his shoulder, the bulge insinuating that there was quite an increase in the amount of correspondence going on.

Khujand had dutifully handed over the instructions Vegnus had written to the Thunder Pass post master; it was written in Orcish and was intelligently devoid of the Alliance seal or any names associated with Alliance races, bearing instead the neutral seal of the shipping consortium. He'd like to think that he had played a small part in connecting people on this alternate version of Draenor during the campaign. Every little bit counted, and everybody had to do their part.

"Right, just across the table here," the unusually energetic Forsaken post master bellowed from inside the office. He began rummaging through letters along with the native orcish attendant, that familiar sound of paper sliding across wood helping to soothe Khujand's self-inflicted stress and tension.

The post master often complained of the burly troll's presence on the porch every morning, depriving people who had actually received mail of a place to sit. He complained, but he never set his foot down. In a way, he sort of pitied the lonely, short-tusked man who asked with such concern about anything received with the initials "C.C." written on it in Thalassian. As a non-native speaker of Darnassian, its sister language Thalassian was mostly unintelligible to Khujand though he had borrowed a book on its script from the local mage's quarter and could pronounce the sounds. It was a clever means of concealing the origin of the sender, just as they had planned during that last dinner at Beastwatch.

It had been just shy of a month since they parted ways. He remembered the certainty he saw reflected in her eyes as they made their plans - it was perhaps the only emotion that they _didn't_ share, as he was still his old, pessimistic self when thinking of how things could possibly work out. His work was his refuge; when he and Toruk weren't tracking down wild game for the cooks in the back of the inn, Khujand actually took to assisting Javilla and the hired men with cleaning and maintaining the building and facilities. He needed something to take his mind off things and beat back the sense of emptiness that had returned, that sense that he had foolishly become attached to someone he would never be able to see again.

"Only one month," he muttered to himself scornfully. Some people were separated from those close to them for much longer than that without receiving letters, and they still made their relationships work. There he was, moping around and it hadn't even quite been thirty days. Khujand really didn't know how he was going to survive this emotionally.

"These bags never seem to get any lighter," laughed the mail carrier inside. "People have started sending boxes, too."

So there the melancholy troll sat on the porch as he had for the past three weeks, his travel bag packed and ready in case, by some strange stroke of luck, a letter would arrive beckoning him to drop everything and run to her. He felt so sappy, and so awkward to be twenty-seven years old and experiencing such feelings for the first time. Both of his marriages had been loveless from beginning to end, and his two relationships outside of that had been brief and forgettable.

Was he being devoted, he asked himself inside, or was he behaving like an infatuated idiot? Was it normal to act like this? As people passed in front of the post office, he followed a few of them with his eyes and wondered how ridiculous they might find his situation and how they would tell him to forget about somebody so far away and move on with his life.

Khujand shut his eyes tight as he felt a lump in his throat. He had become so good at this whole optimism thing Zorena taught him about. There was no reason to screw things up now. Kuma's breathing exercises were quick and effective, and he managed to relax the muscles in his temples and figuratively massage the lump out of his throat quickly. Admitting that he believed in fate was supposed to bring him solace, but his want of another person stung him. Yes, he was hypersensitive and a drama queen, but he wanted to feel like he was _her_ hypersensitive drama queen. She would write. She promised she would.

"Hey, Tiny!" the post master shouted as the postman exited and followed his travel companion to the tavern. It was only then that Khujand noticed the postman was wearing one of the hinged masked specific to the Laughing Skull clan of Gorgrond.

Khujand turned in time to see a thick envelope fly out of the open window of the office and onto his lap. The door swung open and the post master stepped out, leaning his elbows on the railing of the porch as he looked off to the left and watched the busy traffic of the main square.

"Don't say I never did anything good for you!" His light brown shirt and pants and dark brown shoes matched surprisingly well with his white apron. Why a post office worker needed to wear an apron was something Khujand had always wondered but never taken the time to ask.

Grinding stone in hand, he slowly gazed down into the beige envelope which sat on his lap. It was tied with a similarly colored piece of rope around the four corners. He stared numbly for what seemed like ages before placing the grinding stone down next to the footstool while leaving his glaive lying across his thighs. He had dreamed of this moment sometimes, and now that it had finally come he didn't even know how he felt.

Holding it up, he could sense that there were several sheets of paper inside. His fingers trembled as he felt the crease on the surface. Oh no...had it been bent or folded? The contents would most likely still be readable, but the thought of something so precious being tossed carelessly angered him.

He flipped the letter around slowly, his heart fluttering the way it did when he heard her speak his name. The writing on the front was in Thalassian script.

Khujand's hand trembled slightly as memories of those four nights swept over him. Closing his eyes for a moment, he could almost feel her scratching his scalp at the base of his mane, her other hand affectionately tugging at the leather strap of his pack. She wrote. Just like she said she would.

Before he could even open his eyes, something incredible wafted up to his nostrils. Was that...wait, what was that smell? Without opening his eyes, he held the envelope even closer and inhaled deeply.

"Sandalwood..." he whispered to himself sentimentally as he remembered holding her close that first moonlit night when they danced in the water.

The post master's stiff, black-grey wavy hairdo and handlebar mustache waggled back and forth as he spoke about what could have literally been the most interesting topic in the universe, and Khujand literally couldn't care any less. Opening his eyes, he carefully untied the knots of the rope and smelled it as well before tying it around his wrist. Sticking a finger underneath the opening, he unsealed the envelope with all the care of a surgeon before sliding the sheets out.

Thirteen sheets of paper! Twelve of them covered on both sides and the front of another, all written in Darnassian script. The past few days had mostly been spent reading whatever he could get his hands on from Zorena's library of druidic works; he knew he would need the practice so he could understand every word she might use.

His heart was racing as he read each paragraph and then reread it two more times before moving on to the next. By God...she had practically written a book! There was so much there, about how difficult the flight back to Highpass had been knowing that they would be so far apart, about how she worried so much that they wouldn't be able to contact each other again even when she had claimed that she didn't, about how she was even more worried that it wasn't normal to feel so attached. His vision almost blurred as he felt as though he were reading his own feelings there on the page.

She went into the details of the property in Ratchet she and Irien had put the downpayment on, describing it based on the several times they had viewed it during construction and scribbling some diagrams as well. She had so many plans for decoration...why was she telling him all this? Her description was so detailed that he felt as though he were in the house right at that moment. He fought back his foolish hope that she was somehow trying to hint at something and read on.

She described some of the dreams she had been having in vivid detail, described the latest exploits she and Irien had engaged in while patroling the postal roads in eastern Gorgrond, and the latest jokes they had made poor Anushka the butt of. Everything was there; it was like a thirteen sheet log of her life since they had gone their separate ways, and he loved every last word of it.

At the end, there was a long yet clinical explanation of the shipping routes in the province and how cross-factional mail could be sent from Beastwatch to Highpass through an officially neutral carrier. Apparently, some of the Azerothians had raised issue with mail being accepted from an Alliance settlement. Mail...seriously? The reason it had taken her almost a month to reach him was that they were trying to settle down local opposition to the idea until Sandash, their Azerothian friend who had run off with the native Laughing Skull, emerged from the wilderness and intervened on behalf of the Steamwheedle Cartel. After one month of separation, the mail would go through.

Wait...Vegnus had already discussed the presence of members of the Horde with the commander of Highpass. While some opposition occurred, mail carriers from Beastwatch had been allowed to stay the night within the defensive walls of the town but outside of the main residential district.

_By the time you receive this, we will likely have received our third member of the Horde delivering mail and packages. The last two were able to stay without being harassed, and obviously for someone who had a hand in opening the mail route into Frostfire, negotiating the stay of a certain jungle troll with clipped tusks shouldn't be so difficult__._

_I don't know what your schedule is like with the inn, but Vegnus is already asking about when I'll receive my first letter from you letting us all know how you're doing. And...well...as fun as solo dances are in those clear Gorgrond springs underneath the night sky, it just doesn't compare to having a partner to embarrass myself with. __It would be great if you could_

_Screw it, I'll be honest. I miss you so, so much and I can't wait to see you. Maybe that sounds too forward this early on or like some childhood infatuation, maybe people would think it's too soon, but it's the truth and I told myself I would stop being afraid. Come see me now, my big, brawny, overly sensitive man!_

_C.C._

The sheets were shoved back into the envelope so fast - and the envelope itself shoved into the travel pack so fast - that the violet-blue lipstick from where she had kissed the paper next to her signature was smudged inside.

"So that's the story of how I once delivered mail to Lady Sylvanas Windrunner and King Varian Wrynn both within the span of only thirty-two hours," prattled the post master as he felt a rumble on the porch. He had been so enraptured with his own story that he didn't even notice the 500 pounds of troll dashing by him. Looking to the left side of the porch, all he could see was a grinding stone lying on the floor next to a footstool with an empty glass.

"Hey!" the vegetable delivery kid cried out as he hit the snow with a thud. Potatoes, carrots and cucumbers had spilled out of his two bags and were strewn all over the ground in front of the post office.

The post master leapt down the steps just in time to see the flight master stumbling over a ripped bag of silver coins and hanging on to the reins of two insectoid flying mounts, trying in vain to calm them down as a rylak screeched in pain overhead. While it was disappearing fast, he could vaguely make out the figure of a large, redheaded man wrapped in furs, a travel bag strapped to his back, fel glaive in his hand and a half-eaten apple in his mouth.

* * *

**A/N: Almost nine years on, and my two main characters who only knew each other from an unrequited bond in a oneshot are finally reunited. Originally, they were never supposed to see each other again nor have happy endings of their own; thanks to all who made it this far into their tale!**

**For those interested, there are some more stories coming up in this continuum before I move on to other groups of characters. Aside from the last one, all of these stories are complete, edited and just lying around in my online file storage as well as my cloud.**

**Before Summer Ends and Escape From Ashran are three and five chapters respectively, set six months and then one year on from this one, mostly of couple fluff as these two try to navigate the difficulties of a relationship like theirs.**

**Be By My Side will be roughly ten chapters of how Cecilia's sister Unelia met Johan.**

**You, Me &amp; Us, the 45 chapter epic of this continuum, tells of Cecilia and Khujand's attempt to reach out to people from their old lives once the two of them return to Azeroth; not all threads in the continuum have a happy ending, I'll warn of that up front. There is character death, issues never resolved and broken hearts.**

**Lightning Crashes is a 15 chapter story and the final one featuring Cici and Khuj as the main characters, dealing with natural childbirth, the raising of biracial children and pregnancy late in life. That's the only one not entirely finished as of right now.**

**After that, there are other things such as the three volume Taming the Beast, in which you see Cecilia and Khujand's direct involvement in the continuum reach its happy ending as a new generation takes the stage but that is all in the future. Whether you read on or not, I truly hope that Four Nights in Gorgrond brought a smile to your faces when reading it. Thank you for your time. I love you all. :)**


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